University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


Tales  From 
The  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 


Tales  From 
The  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 


The  Blue-Roan  "Outlaw' 
and  Other  Stories 


By 
WILL  C.  BARNES 

Author  of  "Western  Grazing  Grounds' 


X 


Published  by 

THE  BREEDERS'  GAZETTE 

542  So.  Dearborn  Street 

Chicago,  Illinois 

1920 


COPYRIGHT  1920 
SANDERS  PUBLISHING  CO. 

ALL  BIGHTS  RESERVED 


To  My  Mother: 

Who  shared  with  me  many  of  the 
dangers  and  hardships  of  the  old 
days  on  the  ranges  of  the  South- 
west, these  stories  are  affectionately 
dedicated. 


Washington,  D.  C. 
September  1st,  1919. 


Contents 


Sunrise  on  the  Desert  (poem)     ......  xi 

The  Blue-Roan  "Outlaw"     .......  1 

Campin*  Out .     .  23 

Popgun  Plays  Santa  Claus 32 

"Just  Regulars" 45 

The  Stampede  on  the  Turkey  Track  Range    .     .  58 

The  Navajo  Turquoise  Ring 74 

An  Arizona  Etude 86 

Stutterin'  Andy 94 

The  Passing  of  Bill  Jackson 104 

The  Tenderfoot  from  Yale 114 

"Dummy" 123 

The  Mummy  from  the  Grand  Cafion   ....  140 

Jumping  at  Conclusions 149 

Lost  hi  the  Petrified  Forest 163 

"Camel  Huntin' "      .     . .     .  174 

The  Trinidad  Kid     ...     .     .     ....     .     .  184 

"Pablo"     .     .     .     .     .     ......     .  195 

The  Shooting  up  of  Horse  Head      ,     .     .     .     .  206 


Illustrations 

The  whole  herd  swam  the  Pecos  in  safety 8 

Say  Dad,  did  you  ever  pack  a  burro? 23 

Gibson  managed  to  get  everything   in   the    two    Kyacks 

carried  by  the  mule *     .  36 

"Just  Regulars"  Apache  squaw  and  baby 45 

The  men  on  day  herd  could  hold  them  easily    ....  58 

Some  prehistoric  people  had  carved  queer  hieroglyphics  on  it  71 

He  was  a  picture  of  savage  finery 78 

Now  the  Navajos  are  famous  silversmiths 78 

The  mess  wagon  was  backed  up  into  the  shade      .     *     .  86 

Andy  done  built  a  little  log  house 97 

We  had  a  fire  lookout  station .     .  115 

Out  on  the  range  1200  ewes  were  grazing     ...     .     .  128 

He  had  a  Navajo  Squaw  weaving  blankets  .     ...     .  144 

He  knows  where  there's  a  bunch  of  Cliff  Dwellings      .     .  148 

The  sails  of  the  wind  mill  flashed  in  the  sunlight  .     .     .  153 

We  were  camped  over  in  the  petrified  forest     .     . . ' ,;    .  165 

Hawk  met  a  forest  ranger  leading  a  pack  mule     .»     ;     .  197 

They  gave  the  money  to  Jackson,  the  Cross  J  boss     .     .  210 


SUNRISE  ON  THE  DESERT 


rpOWARDS  the  east,  the  God  of  day, 
L  Like  some  great  red-eyed  dragon,  tops  the  rugged 

range. 

Before  his  golden  beams,  the  gray 
Of  dawn  creeps  slowly  backward,  till  the  magic  change 
Sweeps  night  away. 

The  desert  stirs,  and  wakes. 
Strange-fashioned  things  come  slipping  into  sight. 
High  overhead  a  buzzard  idly  wings, 
A  lonely  raven  robed  in  shades  of  night 
"Caws"  hoarsely  to  its  mates. 

Perched  on  a  nearby  stone, 

A  lizard,  swift  as  light,  and  clad  in  colors  gay, 

Pumps  slowly  up  and  down. 

A  horned  toad,  with  crown  of  thorns,  comes  slithering  by, 

And  then  is  gone. 

Atop  of  yonder  rocky  hill 

A  lone  coyote,  skulker  of  the  desert  wastes, 

Greets  the  first  beams  with  shrill 

And  piercing  "yips»"  then  hastes 

To  find  his  morning  kill. 

A  wandering  honeybee, 

Drunk  with  nectar  from  a  Palo  Verde's  yellow  bloom, 

Goes  stagg'ring  by. 

The  air  is  heavy  with  the  desert's  sweet  perfume 

From  flower  and  tree. 


"S 


The  Blue-Roan  "Outlaw" 

A  Tale  of  the  "Hashknife"  Range* 

AY,  Bill,  there's  that  old  blue-roan,  droop-horned  cow 
that  allus  runs  over  on  the  Coyote  wash.     Reckon 
she  ain't  got  a  calf  somers'  hereabout?" 

"Like  as  not,"  replied  Bill,  "an'  I'll  bet  it's  a  blue-roan, 
too,  for  she's  raised  a  blue  calf  reg'lar  fer  these  last  four 
or  five  years.  There's  a  little  hole  of  water  clos't  to  where 
she's  a-grazin'  and'  it's  a  sure  shot  the  calf's  hid  away  in 
that  tall  grass  down  there  clos't  to  it." 

The  two  cowboys  rode  slowly  down  the  gentle  slope 
toward  the  cow,  which  watched  them  eagerly,  but  with  the 
cunning  of  the  brute  made  no  sign  or  motion  to  show  where 
her  baby  was  hidden.  When,  however,  one  of  the  boys 
played  the  time-worn  trick  on  her  by  barking  like  a  dog, 
it  was  too  much  for  her  peace  of  mind.  With  a  mad  bel- 
low of  defiance  she  raced  toward  the  spot  where  the  little 
fellow  was  hidden,  exactly  as  the  boys  knew  she  would. 

The  calf,  with  the  instinct  of  the  brute  already  work- 
ing in  his  little  four-day-old  brain,  did  not  move,  but  lay 
there  as  quietly  as  if  he  were  dead,  and,  not  until  the 

*By  permission  The  Breeder's  Gazette,  Chicago,  111. 

1 


£  Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

horsemen  rode  almost  onto  him  in  the  deep  grass,  did  they 
discover  his  hiding  place. 

The  mother,  with  the  fear  of  man  too  strong  in  her 
heart  to  stand  by  her  guns,  ran  off  a  few  yards  from  the 
spot  and  the  calf  followed,  bawling  loudly,  the  already 
awakened  man-fear  strong  within  him. 

"He's  a  sure  blue-roan  all  right,"  said  Bill.  "Say, 
won't  that  old  Hashknife  iron  loom  up  big  on  them  ribs 
some  day?"  he  asked,  for  a  brand  on  a  roan  animal  shows 
much  more  plainly  than  on  a  hide  of  any  other  color. 

"It  sure  will,"  replied  his  companion;  "better  leave 
'em  here  till  tomorrow  an'  we  can  swing  around  this  a-way 
an'  git  'em." 

So  the  boys  rode  on  across  the  prairie,  and  the  droop- 
horned  blue  with  her  baby  rested  in  peace  that  day  and 
night. 

It  was  here,  away  out  on  the  "staked  plains,"  those 
mysterious  regions  of  the  great  Southwest,  and  far  back 
from  the  thin  line  of  settlements  that  fringed  the  Pecos 
River,  in  southeastern  New  Mexico,  that  the  "blue-roan 
outlaw"  first  saw  the  light. 

Early  next  morning  the  leaders  of  the  roundup  party, 
engaged  in  gathering  up  the  cattle  on  the  range,  swung 
across  the  prairie  in  a  great  semicircle,  sweeping  before 
them  in  one  huge  drive,  everything  of  the  cow  kind.  As 
they  divided  up  into  couples  to  work  down  the  country, 
the  leader  said :  "Bill,  you  look  out  an'  catch  that  ole  blue- 
roan  we  seen  yistiday.  The  old  man  wants  all  them  cows 
to  throw  into  that  Arizony  drive,  an'  her  an'  the  calf  will 
make  it  in  all  right,  I  reckon." 


The  Blue-Roan  Outlaw  S 

So,  as  they  rode  along,  Bill  swung  across  a  little  draw 
toward  the  water  hole  they  had  seen  the  day  before.  He 
picked  up  the  blue-roan,  who,  with  her  young  son  beside 
her,  trotted  off,  following  the  rest  of  the  cattle  already 
working  down  the  trails  toward  the  round-up  grounds. 
The  two  animals  fell  in  with  more  of  their  kind  as  the  trails 
converged  until,  by  the  time  the  roundup  ground  was 
reached,  there  were  more  than  fifteen  hundred  cattle  of 
all  ages  and  sexes  gathered  in  one  great  bunch. 

The  blue-roan's  baby  kept  close  to  his  mother's  side; 
the  dust  that  settled  over  the  herd  like  a  pall,  choking  him, 
while  the  constant  bawling  of  the  cattle,  fairly  deafened 
him. 

Once,  when  two  huge  bulls,  fighting  fiercely,  drove 
through  that  portion  of  the  herd  where  he  and  his  mother 
were,  and  separated  the  little  family,  he  added  to  the  din 
by  raising  his  voice  in  pitiful  outcry  for  his  protector. 

Outside  of  the  herd  the  cowboys  rode  slowly  around, 
turning  back  into  the  center  any  stragglers  that  tried  to 
escape. 

Gradually  the  bunch  began  to  stop  "milling"  and  as 
cow  after  cow  found  her  calf,  the  bawling  stopped.  In 
half  an  hour  the  herd  was  fairly  quiet  and  the  wagon  boss 
dropped  off  his  horse  to  "cinch  up"  a  little,  preparatory 
to  the  work  of  cutting  out. 

Having  reset  his  saddle,  the  boss  mounted  again  and. 
calling  to  two  other  men  near  him,  said,  "Jack,  you  go 
out  there  a  ways  and  hold  'em  up,  and  Charley  and  I  will 
get  out  the  cows  and  the  calves."  So  Jack  rode  off  about 
one  hundred  yards  from  the  herd  in  readiness  to  receive 


4  Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

the  "cut"  as  they  came  out;  while  the  boss  and  Charley 
rode  slowly  into  the  mass  of  cattle. 

"What  you  want  out?"  he  asked  of  the  boss.  "The 
old  man  wants  every  Hashknife  cow  and  calf  that  will 
stand  the  trail  trip  to  Arizony,"  he  replied.  "We  got  to 
get  two  thousand  for  the  first  herd  if  we  can,  so  cut  'em 
close." 

"There's  that  ole  blue-roan  we  seen  yistiday,"  the  boss 
remarked,  "let's  throw  her  out  first  thing,  she's  a  good  one 
to  start  a  bunch  on." 

Now  starting  a  "cut"  is  always  some  little  trouble  until 
you  get  half  a  dozen  head  together,  because  the  instinct  of 
the  animal  is  to  endeavor  to  either  get  back  into  the-  herd 
or  to  run  clear  off  on  the  range.  In  starting  a  cut,  if  pos- 
sible, they  pick  out  some  old,  sedate  cow,  and  in  this  case 
the  blue-roan  was  known  to  be  a  good  one  for  the  purpose. 

So  our  youngster  found  himself  being  followed  up  by 
a  great  fierce-looking  man  mounted  on  a  small  wiry  "Paint" 
pony  that  kept  right  at  his  mother's  heels,  no  matter  which 
way  she  turned  or  twisted. 

The  cow  dodged  and  wound  through  the  herd,  while  that 
object  behind  kept  close  to  her,  never  hurrying,  never 
crowding,  but  always,  in  some  inexplicable  manner,  seeming 
to  force  her  to  the  outer  rim  of  the  herd. 

With  the  dim  hope  that  possibly  she  could  escape  his 
presence  by  a  break  from  the  herd  she  worked  past  half 
a  dozen  steers  standing  idly  on  the  edge  and,  with  a  quick 
dash,  broke  from  the  herd  out  toward  the  free  open  prairie, 
the  calf  racing  at  her  side. 


The  Blue-Roan  Outlaw  5 

The  man  who  had  so  persistently  hung  to  her  flank 
made  no  further  attempt  to  follow  her,  but  turned  his 
pony  and  was  lost  in  the  mass  of  the  herd. 

As  she  widened  the  distance  from  the  edge  of  the  herd 
Jack,  who,  up  to  this  time  had  been  sitting  sideways  on 
his  pony  some  distance  from  the  herd,  straightened  up,  a 
movement  which  caught  her  eye,  so  she  stopped  to  inspect 
him  and  decide  what  new  danger  was  about  to  present 
itself. 

To  her  surprise  Jack  seemed  satisfied  with  her  stop- 
ping and  made  no  attempt  to  come  near  her.  The  calf 
ranged  along  side  of  her  and  began  preparations  for  a 
lunch,  so  she,  being  a  sensible  animal,  decided  to  stay 
where  she  was  for  a  time. 

A  moment  later  a  second  cow  and  calf  were  also  shot 
out  of  the  edge  of  the  herd.  As  she  charged  across  the 
open  space  Jack  again  took  interest  enough  in  the  pro- 
ceedings to  ride  out  and  turn  her  over  toward  the  blue- 
roan,  which  received  her  with  a  short  bawl.  The  two  calves 
eyed  each  other  for  a  second  and  then  busied  themselves 
with  their  dinner  operations. 

The  second  cow,  being  young,  and  with  her  first  calf, 
was  inclined  to  run  off  and  leave  the  spot,  but  in  some 
way  every  time  she  did  so  she  met  Jack  and  his  pony,  who, 
the  instant  she  turned  toward  the  blue  cow,  seemed  satis- 
fied and  took  no  further  steps  to  interfere  with  her  liberty. 

Soon  a  third  and  fourth  cow  joined  them  and,  now 
that  there  was  a  nucleus  formed,  every  new  animal  turned 
out  of  the  herd  chased  straight  for  the  little  bunch,  which 
stood  quietly  for  the  next  three  hours,  their  calves  sleeping 


6  Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

at  their  feet  paying  little  attention  to  the  uproar  that  was 
going  on  in  the  main  herd. 

Having  cut  out  some  three  hundred  cows  and  calves, 
the  "choppers"  rode  out  of  the  herd,  and  the  "cut"  was 
slowly  driven  off  to  water  at  a  near-by  windmill,  while  the 
main  body  of  cattle  was  allowed  to  drift  out  onto  the  range 
at  their  own  pleasure. 

That  night  the  blue-roan  and  her  calf,  together  with 
the  rest  of  the  cut,  were  "bedded  down"  near  the  round-up 
camp.  All  night  long  two  men  rode  around  them  and  any 
cow  which  tried  to  escape  was  promptly  turned  back  into 
the  herd  by  the  watchful  riders. 

The  next  day  this  bunch  was  called  the  "day  herd" 
and  three  herders  looked  after  them  all  day  long.  They 
were  allowed  to  graze  over  a  piece  of  open  range  where 
the  herders  could  watch  them  and  see  that  none  of  them 
escaped.  At  noon  they  were  driven  into  a  great  prairie 
lake  to  water. 

That  evening  another  large  bunch  of  cows  and  calves 
were  brought  out  to  the  day  herd  and  turned  into  it  so  that 
they  made  quite  a  respectable  herd  that  night. 

At  the  end  of  ten  days'  work  they  had  over  the  required 
number  to  make  up  the  "trail  herd,"  and  the  wagon  boss 
announced  one  evening  that  he  would  send  them  into  the 
main  ranch  on  the  following  day  to  start  for  the  long  trail 
trip  to  Arizona. 

The  blue-roan  calf  had  by  this  time  become  a  seasoned 
traveler,  and  found  little  difficulty  in  taking  care  of  him- 
self in  the  herd.  A  day  or  two  at  the  ranch  and  the 
preparations  for  the  trip  were  over. 


The  Blue-Roan  Outlaw  7 

One  fine  morning  about  four  o'clock  the  cook,  who  had 
been  up  in  the  cool  morning  air  since  half-past  two,  awoke 
the  sleepers  about  his  wagon  with  a  long  "roll  out,  roll  out, 
r-o-l-l-o-u-t"  which  brought  the  sleepers  in  the  camp  beds 
scattered  about  the  wagon  to  the  campfire  in  short  order. 

By  sunrise  the  herd  was  strung  out  on  the  trail  for  the 
West.  In  the  lead  was  the  old  blue-roan  with  her  blue  calf 
marching  steadily  along,  grazing  when  the  herd  was  held 
up  for  that  purpose,  resting  when  the  outfit  stopped  to 
rest,  and  altogether  behaving  themselves  remarkably  well. 

One  night  as  the  crew  sat  about  the  campfire  with  the 
herd  resting  quietly  not  far  from  the  wagon,  the  wagon 
boss  said  to  one  of  the  boys  near  him :  "Jim,  I  wish  you'd 
take  your  hoss  in  the  mawnin'  and  go  ahead  and  see  how  the 
river  is.  We  got  to  cross  it  before  long  and  I'm  afeard  it's 
going  to  be  pretty  high,  if  all  them  clouds  up  toward  the 
head  is  good  for  anything." 

Late  the  next  night  Jim  returned  with  the  information 
that  the  river  was  indeed  high  and  that  it  would  be  necessary 
to  swim  the  cattle,  or  wait  for  it  to  run  down. 

Four  days  later  the  herd  was  bedded  down  in  the  valley 
of  the  Pecos  River,  a  mile  or  two  back  from  the  stream. 
About  noon  the  next  day,  when  the  cattle  were  thirsty,  the 
whole  herd  was  drifted  down  to  the  river  at  a  place  picked 
out  by  the  wagon  boss  where  the  banks  were  broken  down 
so  the  cattle  could  reach  the  water.  On  the  opposite  side 
the  bank  was  low,  making  a  good  "coming  out"  place. 

The  river  here  was  half  a  mile  wide  and  running  swift- 
ly. It  was,  however,  not  swimming  all  the  way  across,  and 
the  place  was  known  as  a  safe  ford  because  of  an  underlying 


8  Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

rock  ledge,  which  made  good  footing  for  the  cattle  in  a 
river  where  quicksand  was  almost  everywhere  present. 

The  water  was  muddy  and  red  and,  as  the  first  cattle, 
eager  for  a  drink,  waded  out  into  its  depths,  the  old  blue  in 
the  lead,  the  men  carefully  pointed  them  out  into  the  stream, 
keeping  them  moving. 

The  others  followed,  calves  bawling,  men  shouting,  the 
animals  plunging  and  tearing  through  the  swift  waters. 
Soon  the  leaders  were  swimming  and,  as  the  water  deepened, 
the  old  blue  touched  her  baby  on  the  nose  and  told  him  some- 
thing in  cow  language  which  made  him  immediately  get  on 
the  upstream  side  of  her  and  stay  there  as  they  swam  across 
the  river.  The  swift  water  forced  the  little  fellow  against 
her  side,  where  he  hung  like  a  leech,  while  his  mother  swam, 
strong  and  steadily,  for  the  opposite  bank.  If  the  leaders 
had  any  desire  to  turn  downstream  they  met  a  horseman  on 
that  side,  swinging  his  slicker,  and  shouting  with  all  his 
might,  and  keeping  just  far  enough  back  of  the  leaders 
to  stop  them  from  turning  downstream,  and  still  not  check 
them  in  their  swimming  toward  the  other  side. 

Soon  the  old  blue  and  her  comrades  found  footing  and 
she  and  her  little  one  were  among  the  first  to  scramble  up 
the  muddy  bank  and  stand  on  dry  land  on  the  western  side 
of  the  Pecos.  The  whole  herd,  including  a  thousand 
calves,  crossed  safely.  After  the  saddle  horses  had  swum 
the  river,  and  the  wagon  had  been  floated  over,  all  the  beds 
and  plunder  were  carried  across  in  a  small  boat,  and  the 
westward  journey  to  Arizona  was  continued. 

The  day  after  their  arrival  on  the  Arizona  range  the 
cattle  were  turned  out  to  graze  early  in  the  morning.  When 


The  Blue-Roan  Outlaw  9 

the  calves  had  all  found  their  mothers  and  settled  down 
quietly,  the  boss  "cut  off"  some  three  hundred  cows,  each 
with  her  calf.  These  the  boys  drove  to  a  great  stone  corral 
about  a  mile  away,  which  was  almost  as  large  inside  as  a 
city  block.  In  one  corner  a  fire  of  cedar  logs  was  built, 
into  which  was  stuck  a  lot  of  iron  affairs  with  handles  three 
or  four  feet  long,  which  were  the  branding  irons  belonging 
to  the  outfit.  As  he  watched  the  irons  in  the  fire  reaching  a 
white  heat,  the  boss  remarked  that  the  old  man  was  going 
to  run  the  same  old  Hashknife  brand  and  mark  in  Arizony 
as  he  did  back  in  Texas.  Finally  the  boss,  throwing  away 
his  cigarette,  said  to  the  ropers,  "Irons  hot,  fly  at  'em  boys." 
Two  men  on  their  horses,  rode  into  the  mass  of  cattle 
crowded  against  the  far  side  of  the  corral  and,  with  swift, 
dextrous  throws,  began  catching  the  calves.  As  soon  as 
the  rope  settled  about  the  neck  of  one,  the  horse  was  turned 
toward  the  fire,  and  as  the  rope  was  short  and  tied  to  the 
saddle  horn,  the  unwilling,  bawling  calf  was  dragged  up  to 
the  vicinity  of  the  fire.  There  two  husky  cowboys  ran  out 
to  meet  the  rider  and,  following  up  the  rope  to  the  calf 
dancing  and  bawling  about  at  the  end  of  it,  one  of  them 
seized  him  by  the  ear  or  head  with  one  hand  and  the  flank 
with  the  other  and,  with  a  quick  jerk,  threw  him  upon  his 
side.  The  instant  he  struck  the  ground,  the  other  man 
seized  a  hind  leg  and  pulled  it  straight  out  behind  the  calf, 
while  the  first  man,  throwing  off  the  rope,  sat  on  the  animal's 
neck  and  head,  and  another  seared  the  tender  hide  with  the 
famous  "Hashknife"  brand.  Still  another  man  with  a 
knife  cut  off  the  point  of  the  calf's  right  ear  and  took  out 
a  little  V-shaped  piece  from  the  under  side  of  the  left  ear. 


10         Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

This  was  the  company's  earmark.  In  an  instant  the  op- 
eration was  over  and  the  calf  running  back  to  its  mother. 

The  blue-roan  calf  was  determined  he  should  not  be 
branded.  He  watched  the  riders  as  they  rode  into  the 
herd  and  buried  himself  deep  in  the  middle  of  the  mass, 
worming  under  the  larger  cattle  and  hiding  behind  them, 
until  he  began  to  believe  he  would  escape  after  all. 

All  morning  long  the  men  worked  away  with  the  herd 
until  the  poor  animals  were  half  mad  with  fear  and  hunger. 
As  the  blue-roan  dodged  to  avoid  the  whirling,  snakelike 
rope  that  suddenly  shot  out  from  the  hand  of  a  man  he  had 
not  noticed,  he  felt  it  draw  up  on  his  hind  legs.  Before  he 
knew  it,  he  was  lying  on  his  side  and  being  dragged  across 
the  rough  ground  toward  the  fire,  where  he  was  to  receive 
a  mark  for  life. 

"I  snared  that  blue-roan  that's  been  so  smart,"  said  the 
rider  as  he  passed  the  other  man.  "Burn  him  deep  Dick," 
he  said,  "for  he's  a  roan  and  it  will  show  up  fine  when  he 
gets  grown." 

Released  from  his  torture,  the  roan  staggered  back  to 
his  mother,  who  gave  him  all  the  comfort  she  could.  His 
side  was  bruised  and  sore  where  he  had  been  dragged  over 
the  rough  ground,  and  the  great  burn  on  his  ribs  pained 
him  beyond  measure. 

Soon  after  that  the  bunch  was  turned  out  to  graze  and, 
sick  at  heart,  the  calf  crawled  miserably  under  the  shade 
of  a  small  ironwood  bush,  while  his  mother  went  to  water, 
leaving  him  alone  in  his  wretchedness.  From  this  time  on, 
the  blue-roan  became  a  hater  of  men.  The  object  on  horse- 
back was  to  him  the  source  of  all  his  suffering  and  pain — a 


The  Blue-Roan  Outlaw  11 

thing  to  be  avoided,  and  upon  which  to  wreak  vengeance 
some  day,  if  possible. 

The  country  in  Arizona  was  very  unlike  the  old  range 
upon  the  staked  plains  in  Texas,  being  rough  and  rocky, 
with  none  of  those  great  grassy  stretches  they  had  been 
accustomed  to  back  in  their  old  home.  There  were  trees 
here,  too,  a  thing  they  had  never  known  on  their  old  range, 
and  the  cows  buried  themselves  deep  in  the  thickets  of  cedar 
and  pinon.  There  they  found  many  tanks  or  reservoirs 
of  rain  water,  and  unless  the  water  gave  out  they  seldom 
left  their  hiding  places. 

Here,  the  blue-roan  calf  and  his  mother  made  their 
home,  until  one  day,  when  he  was  about  a  year  old,  he  was 
accidentally  separated  from  her  and  never  saw  her  again. 
Two  years  of  life  in  the  thickets  made  him  shy  and  wild 
as  a  deer;  he  learned  to  watch  for  objects  upon  horseback, 
which  were  his  one  great  fear.  Once  in  the  winter  before  he 
lost  his  mother  a  trio  of  wolves  followed  them  through  the 
cedars  for  a  whole  day,  sneaking  up  on  them  as  closely  as 
they  dared,  even  nipping  at  their  heels.  His  mother  would 
turn  upon  them  with  a  bellow  of  defiance  and  charge  toward 
the  tormentors,  head  down,  returning  quickly  to  the  little 
bunch  of  friends  that  stood  together,  heads  to  the  foe,  their 
calves  within  the  circle. 

A  two-year-old  heifer,  with  more  pluck  than  judg- 
ment, weak  from  a  long  winter  of  short  grass  and  poor 
range,  made  a  dart  toward  the  wolves,  and  turning  to  join 
the  circle  of  cows,  stumbled  and  fell  to  her  knees.  In  a 
moment  the  wolves  were  upon  her.  While  they  were  busy 
over  their  feast,  the  other  cattle  slipped  away  from  the  fear- 


12          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

some  place,  and  a  new  danger  crept  into  the  blue-roan's 
life. 

Three  years  had  passed.  The  blue-roan  was  beginning 
to  be  a  noted  character  upon  the  range.  He  was  broad  of 
horn,  and  the  great  black  Hashknife,  outlined  against  the 
blue  hide,  could  be  s^en  for  a  long  distance.  The  sight  of  a 
horseman,  no  matter  how  far  away,  was  sufficient  to  send 
him  plunging  down  the  roughest  mountainside,  into 
the  depths  of  the  cedar  brakes,  and  over  rocks  and 
lava  flows,  where  no  mounted  man  could  follow.  He 
was  too  fleet  of  foot  for  the  older  cows,  and  the  roan 
soon  found  himself  alone  in  his  glory.  He  then  became 
what  is  known  to  the  cowboys  of  the  western  ranges  as  an 
"outlaw,"  an  animal,  either  horse,  bovine,  or  even  human, 
that,  deserted  by  all  its  friends,  runs  alone  and  has  little  to 
do  with  the  rest  of  his  kind;  a  "cimarron,"  the  Mexicans 
call  them.  Such  animals  are  seldom  forced  into  the  round- 
ups that  take  place  at  regular  intervals  upon  the  ranges, 
and  when  caught  by  that  dragnet,  are  very  hard  to  hold  in 
the  herd  long  enough  to  get  them  to  the  stockyards  and 
shipped  out  of  the  country. 

The  next  spring,  when  it  was  time  to  start  on  the 
roundup,  the  wagon  boss  told  the  men  to  keep  a  sharp  look- 
out for  that  blue-roan  outlaw,  and  "get  him  or  bust  him," 
if  the  opportunity  offered. 

It  fell  to  the  lot  of  the  boss  and  another  man  to  run  into 
the  blue-roan  a  few  days  later.  They  were  working  down 
a  grassy  draw  in  a  thick  cedar  country,  when  out  from  the 
trees  on  one  side  of  it  there  burst  a  great  blue  animal  with 
a  grand  spread  of  horns,  and  fleet  as  a  deer.  In  an  instant 


The  Blue-Roan  Outlaw  13 

the  two  men  had  their  ropes  down  and  were  after  him  in  full 
pursuit.  "Cut  him  off  from  the  cedars !"  shouted  the  boss 
to  his  partner,  who  happened  to  be  closest  to  the  cedars, 
and  the  boy  spurred  his  pony  toward  the  steer,  which  now 
was  doing  his  best  to  gain  the  friendly  shelter  and  protec- 
tion of  the  trees. 

It  was  but  a  short  distance,  and  the  steer  had  much  the 
best  of  the  race,  but  the  boy  had  his  pony  alongside  the 
animal  before  he  could  get  his  rope  into  shape  for  a  throw. 
The  steer,  with  the  keen  instinct  of  the  hunted,  crowded  the 
pony  over  toward  the  trees  and,  just  as  the  rider  was  ready 
to  drop  his  rope  over  the  animal's  wide-spread  horns,  an 
overhanging  branch  caught  the  loop,  jerking  it  from  his 
grip.  In  a  vain  attempt  to  turn  the  steer  from  the  trees 
into  the  open,  he  crowded  his  pony  close  up  onto  the  huge 
bulk  of  the  outlaw.  The  man's  right  knee  was  fairly 
touching  the  animal's  shoulder,  while  he  rapidly  coiled  his 
rope  for  another  throw. 

Following  them  came  the  boss,  cursing  his  rope,  a  new 
"Maguey"  which  had  fouled  in  his  hands  and  was  a  mass 
of  snarls  and  knots,  which  in  his  eager  haste  he  only  made 
worse  instead  of  better.  At  this  instant,  the  blue-roan 
turned  suddenly.  With  a  quick  upward  thrust  of  his  head, 
he  drove  his  nearest  horn  deep  into  the  side  of  the  pony, 
which  was  crowding  him  so  closely,  tearing  a  cruel  gash  in 
his  side  and  throwing  horse  and  rider  into  a  confused, 
struggling  heap  on  the  ground. 

In  a  moment  the  steer  was  lost  in  the  trees,  while  the 
boss  dropped  off  his  horse  to  assist  his  companion,  who  was 
working  hard  to  free  himself  from  the  body  of  the  pony> 


14          Tales  from  the  X-Ear  Horse  Camp 

which  lay  across  his  leg.  The  boy  cleared  himself  from  his 
saddle-rigging,  and  the  pony  struggled  to  his  feet.  It  was 
very  evident,  however,  that  the  animal  was  wounded  to 
the  death ;  so  the  boss,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  drew  his  six- 
shooter  and  put  the  poor  animal  out  of  its  misery. 

From  that  day  the  "blue-roan  outlaw"  became  a  marked 
animal  upon  the  range,  and  the  story  of  how  he  killed 
"Curly  Bill's"  pony  was  told  around  many  a  campfire  on 
the  round-ups  that  summer. 

Thus  the  roan  outlaw  added  to  his  reputation  and 
triumphs  until  his  capture  was  the  dearest  hope  of  every 
cowpuncher  upon  that  range.  The  word  had  gone  out  not 
to  kill  him  unless  absolutely  necessary,  but  rather  to  cap- 
ture him  alive  just  for  the  satisfaction  of  the  thing. 

That  fall,  when  the  round-ups  were  working  through 
the  country  in  which  he  was  known  to  be,  every  man  was 
ambitious  to  be  his  captor.  Around  the  campfires  each 
night  plans  were  laid  for  the  job  and  stories  told  of  his 
prowess  and  ability  to  escape  from  his  hunters. 

One  fine  morning,  as  the  riders  were  working  through 
a  country  covered  densely  with  cedar  and  pinon  trees,  with 
occasional  open  glades  and  grassy  valleys,  the  wagon  boss 
and  the  man  with  him  heard  shouts  off  to  their  right.  Pull- 
ing up  their  horses  they  waited  to  locate  the  sound,  when 
suddenly  from  the  thicket  of  trees  along  the  valley  there 
emerged  two  great  animals,  a  black,  and  a  blue-roan  steer. 
It  was  the  famous  blue,  together  with  a  black,  almost  as 
much  an  outlaw  as  himself. 

The  wagon  boss,  who  had  just  been  lamenting  the  fact 
that  he  was  riding  a  half-broken  horse  that  day,  was  nearest 


The  Blue-Roan  Outlaw  15 

to  the  blue,  and  professional  etiquette,  as  well  as  eagerness 
to  be  the  one  to  capture  the  noted  steer,  drove  him  straight 
at  the  big  fellow.  The  pony  he  rode  was  a  green  one,  but 
he  had  plenty  of  speed,  and  before  the  steer  could  reach 
the  shelter  of  the  cedars  the  rope,  tied  hard  and  fast  to  the 
horn  of  a  new  fifty-dollar  saddle,  was  settling  over  the 
head  of  the  outlaw.  Unfortunately,  however,  the  rope  did 
not  draw  up  close  to  the  horns,  or  even  on  the  neck,  but 
slipped  back  against  the  mighty  shoulders  of  the  steer, 
giving  him  a  pulling  power  on  the  rope  that  no  cow-pony 
could  meet.  Then,  to  quote  the  words  of  the  man  with  the 
boss,  "things  shore  did  begin  to  pop." 

Knowing  full  well  that  if  he  crowded  the  animal  too 
hard  he  would  turn  on  him  and  probably  kill  another  horse, 
the  boss  made  a  long  throw  and  consequently  had  but  little 
rope  left  in  his  hand  with  which  to  "play"  his  steer.  The 
jerk  that  came,  when  the  steer  weighing  twelve  hundred 
pounds,  and  running  slightly  down  hill,  arrived  at  the  end 
of  the  rope,  tied  to  the  saddle-horn,  was  something  tremen- 
dous. As  soon  as  the  strain  came  on  the  cinches  the  pony 
threw  down  his  head  and  began  some  of  the  most  scientific 
and  satisfactory  bucking  that  was  ever  seen  on  the  Hash- 
knife  range,  which  is  compliment  enough. 

When  the  boys  were  gathered  about  the  fire  that  even- 
ing "Windy  Bob,"  who  had  been  with  the  boss,  related  the 
affair. 

"Ye  see,  fellers,  me  and  Ed  was  a-driftin'  down  the  wash, 
not  expectin'  anything  pertickler,  when  out  from  the  cedars 
busts  the  ole  blue,  and  a  mighty  good  mate  for  him. 

"  'The  blue's  mine,  Windy,'  ses  Ed,  and  I,  not  hankerin' 


16          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

a  bit  fer  the  job,  bein'  as  my  shoulder  I  broke  last  fall 
won't  stand  much  funny  business,  lets  him  have  the  big  blue 
all  right,  and  I  takes  after  his  mate ;  which  was  plenty  big 
'nuf  fer  me  and  the  hoss  I  was  a-ridin'. 

"I  made  a  good  throw  and,  everything  going  first  rate, 
had  my  steer  on  his  side  in  half  a  minute,  makin'  a  record 
throw  and  tie.  Jist  as  I  got  my  hoggin'  rope  onto  his  feet 
all  safe  I  heered  a  big  doin's  up  towards  Ed's  vicinity,  and 
lookin'  up  seen  his  hoss  jist  a-pitchin'  and  a-sunfishin'  like 
a  good  feller. 

"Ed,  he  rides  him  fer  about  three  or  four  jumps  and 
then,  as  the  saddle  was  a  crawlin'  up  onto  the  pony's  neck, 
from  his  cinches  a-bein  too  loose,  and  it  a-tippin'  up  behind 
like  a  old  hen-turkey's  tail,  runnin'  before  the  wind,  Ed,  he 
decides  to  unload  right  thar  and  not  go  any  farther. 

"The  pony,  he  keeps  up  his  cavortin'  and  the  steer 
stripped  the  saddle  right  over  his  head.  Away  goes  Mr. 
Blue  into  the  thick  timber,  draggin'  that  new  Heiser  Ed 
got  up  in  Denver  over  the  rocks  and  through  the  trees,  like 
as  if  it  want  but  a  pickef  Ajin  at  the  end  of  a  stake  rope. 

"When  Ed  hit  the  sod,  his  Winchester  drops  out  of  the 
scabbard,  an'  he  grabs  it  up  an'  sets  there  on  the  ground 
a  pumpin'  lead  after  the  blue  as  fast  as  he  could  pull  the 
trigger.  He  never  stopped  the  steer  at  all,  an'  when  we 
were  trailin'  him  up,  we  found  the  saddle  where  the  rope 
had  dragged  between  two  rocks.  The  saddle  got  hung  up, 
but  the  steer  was  a  runnin'  so  hard  that  he  jist  busted  the 
rope  and  kept  on  a  goin'  an'  I  reckin  is  a  goin'  yet." 

"Imagine  Ed's  shots  hit  the  steer,  Windy?"  inquired 
one  interested  listener. 


The  Blue-Roan  Outlaw  17 

"Reckon  not,"  was  the  reply,  "but  one  of  them  hit  the 
saddle  and  made  a  hole  clean  through  the  tree,  which  didn't 
help  matters  much  with  the  boss,  I'm  here  to  tell  you. 
You'd  orter  heerd  Ed  talk  when  he  sees  that  there  new 
hull  of  his  all  skinned  up  an'  a  hole  shot  plumb  through  the 
fork."  And  Windy  grinned  at  the  memory  of  it. 

Not  long  after  this  adventure,  the  blue-roan  stood  on  a 
high  ridge  overlooking  a  valley.  Out  in  that  valley  was 
the  salt  ground  where  great  chinks  of  pure  white  rocks  alt 
were  placed,  not  only  to  satisfy  the  cravings  of  the  salt- 
loving  brutes,  but  to  coax  them  out  of  the  cedars  into  the 
open  where  the  wilder  ones  could  be  captured. 

The  roan  was  salt-hungry  and,  after  a  careful  survey  of 
the  surroundings,  started  down  the  trail  for  the  salt 
grounds.  Away  off  to  the  left,  and  quite  out  of  his  sight, 
half  a  dozen  cowboys  were  driving  a  bunch  of  cattle  down  a 
draw  between  two  ridges.  One  of  them  rode  up  on  top  of 
the  ridge  to  take  a  look  over  the  country.  Some  distance 
below  him,  and  well  out  into  the  valley,  was  a  single  animal, 
It  took  but  a  short  look  to  satisfj^lfie  rider  that  it  was  the 
blue-roan.  The  boy  was  riding  his  best  rope-horse  that 
morning  and,  with  a  wave  of  his  hat  to  his  comrades,  he 
loosened  the  reins  on  old  "Greyback"  and  tore  off  down 
the  valley  toward  the  steer. 

He  had  not  gone  fifty  yards  before  the  roan  saw  he 
was  pursued,  and  wheeling  out  of  the  trail  in  which  he  was 
traveling  struck  back  towards  the  sheltering  trees  on  a  long 
swinging  trot. 

A  couple  of  miles'  hard  run,  and  the  boy  rode  his  horse 
out  of  a  deep  wash,  to  see,  across  another  valley,  the  blue- 


18          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

roan  hurrying  majestically  up  the  ridge,  the  sheltering  trees 
but  a  few  hundred  yards  away.  He  spurred  his  horse 
down  the  rocky  side  of  the  ridge,  across  a  flat  at  the  bot- 
tom, and  up  the  steep  side  opposite,  reaching  the  top  just 
as  the  blue  was  passing.  His  horse  was  winded,  but  the 
boy  "took  a  long  chance"  and  drove  after  the  animal  with 
his  rope  down  ready  for  a  throw.  For  an  instant  the  steer 
hesitated,  then  plunged  off  the  ridge,  down  the  steep  side, 
just  as  the  boy's  rope  dropped  over  his  horns.  It  was  a 
fearful  risk  to  rope  a  steer  such  as  this,  with  a  badly 
winded  horse;  but  tenfold  more  dangerous  to  do  it  just  as 
the  great  animal  was  starting  down  the  steep  slope.  The 
boy  knew  his  only  hope  was  to  keep  the  steer  from  tighten- 
ing the  rope,  for  if  that  happened,  no  horse  on  earth  could 
hold  the  weight  of  the  brute  at  the  end  of  it,  plunging  down 
hill  as  they  were. 

"Turn  the  rope  loose,"  you  say?  Oh  no;  he  wasn't 
that  kind  of  a  cow  puncher.  Come  what  might,  he  meant 
to  hang  onto  that  steer  to  the  bitter  end. 

Half  way  down  the  hill  was  a  lone  pifion  tree  about 
twenty  feet  high,  and  true  to  his  nature  the  steer  headed  for 
it.  The  rider  realized  his  danger  and  tried  to  keep  from 
straddling  it  with  his  rope,  but,  just  as  the  roan  reached 
the  tree,  instead  of  passing  it  on  the  same  side  with  the 
horse,  he  dodged  around  it.  This  brought  the  horse  and 
man  on  one  side,  the  steer  on  the  other ;  between  them  a  fifty 
foot  "Tom  Horn"  rope  fastened  firmly ;  one  end  to  a  twelve 
hundred-pound  steer,  the  other,  to  a  saddle  cinched  to  a 
thousand-pound  horse. 

The  tremendous  force  of  the  pull,  when  the  rope  drew 


The  Blue-Roan  Outlaw  19 

up  on  the  tree,  uprooted  it.  This  prevented  the  rope  from 
breaking,  but  there  was  sufficient  jerk  upon  it  to  bring  both 
horse  and  steer  to  the  ground  in  a  struggling  heap. 

The  man  who  was  "riding  for  a  fall,"  with  both  feet  out 
of  the  stirrups,  in  anticipation  of  just  such  a  wreck,  flew 
off  into  space,  landing  in  a  pile  of  rocks  twenty-five  feet 
away  by  actual  measurement.  The  horse  fell  with  his  head 
under  him  in  such  a  way  that  his  neck  was  instantly  broken. 

When  the  other  men  who  were  following  reached  the 
scene,  they  found  the  man  just  regaining  his  senses,  badly 
cut  about  the  head,  but  otherwise  unhurt.  The  blue,  in 
falling,  had  landed  flat  on  his  back,  his  hind  feet  down  the 
steep  hill,  both  his  long  horns  buried  to  the  very  skull  in 
the  ground.  Thus  he  was  absolutely  helpless  and  unable 
to  regain  his  feet,  no  matter  how  hard  he  struggled.  To 
"hog-tie"  him  in  this  position,  was  the  work  of  but  a  mo- 
ment, and  at  last  the  blue-roan  outlaw  was  a  captive. 

It  was  no  trouble  to  roll  him  down  the  steep  hillside  to 
the  level  ground  below,  and  inside  of  half  an  hour  the  rest 
of  the  men  arrived  on  the  scene  with  the  bunch  of  cattle 
they  had  been  driving. 

In  the  bunch  was  a  large  steer  which  they  roped  and 
dragged  up  to  where  the  outlaw  lay,  and,  in  cowboy  par- 
lance "dumped"  him  on  top  of  the  outlaw.  They  then  pro- 
ceeded to  "neck"  the  two  steers  together  with  a  short  rope 
they  cut  for  the  purpose.  Having  done  this  to  their  satis- 
faction they  untied  the  hogging  ropes  and  allowed  the 
steers  to  gain  their  feet.  As  this  was  done  the  bunch  of 
cattle  they  had  driven  up  was  carefully  crowded  around 
the  two  animals.  After  a  few  minutes  of  pulling  and  fight- 


20          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

ing  the  outlaw  sulkily  allowed  himself  to  be  dragged  along 
by  his  unwilling  mate,  with  the  rest  of  the  cattle,  and  was 
eventually  landed  safely  in  the  main  herd. 

Great  was  the  rejoicing  in  camp  that  night  over  the 
capture,  and  the  guards  about  the  herd  were  cautioned  not 
to  let  the  two  escape  under  any  circumstances. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  the  herd  had  been  worked  down 
to  the  river  for  shipping.  As  the  country  was  open  and  the 
herd  easily  handled  the  "twins,"  as  the  boys  called  them, 
came  apart  when  the  old  rope  wore  out  and  were  not 
necked  up  again. 

That  night  one  of  the  men,  who  had  a  family  in  town, 
hired  a  town  kid  to  take  his  place  on  herd,  while  he  went  up 
and  spent  the  night  at  home.  As  the  boy  rode  his  guard 
around  the  edge  of  the  herd  which  lay  quietly  in  the  cool 
night  air,  he  found  a  big  blue  steer  standing  at  the  very 
edge  of  the  bunch  looking  off  toward  the  mountains  in  a 
dreamy,  meditative  mood.  Kidlike,  he  could  not  withstand 
the  temptation  to  play  the  "smarty,"  so,  instead  of  passing 
him  by  or  gently  turning  him  into  the  herd,  the  boy  took 
off  his  hat  and  swung  it  into  the  steer's  face. 

It  was  a  distinct  challenge  to  the  old  warrior,  and  he 
rose  to  the  occasion.  Gathering  himself  for  one  mighty 
plunge  he  struck  the  pony  the  boy  was  riding  with  his 
powerful  head,  knocking  him  flat.  Away  he  dashed  over 
horse  and  rider,  while  the  herd  broke  into  a  mad  stam- 
pede which  carried  them  five  miles  in  the  opposite  direction 
before  they  could  be  "milled"  into  a  bunch  and  held  up 
again.  Two  men  were  left  with  them,  the  rest  returning  to 
camp. 


The  Blue-Roan  Outlaw  21 

Daylight  showed  the  blue-roan  missing,  and  the  wagon 
boss  swore  a  solemn  oath  that,  if  ever  again  he  was  captured, 
he  would  be  necked  and  also  have  his  head  tied  down  to  a 
foot  until  he  was  safely  inside  the  stockyards. 

Four  weeks  later  a  party  of  cattle  men,  gathering  steers 
in  the  mountains,  ran  across  the  blue  outlaw,  right  on  the 
brink  of  a  deep,  rough  canon.  He  was  seen,  with  the  aid 
of  a  glass,  across  a  bend  in  the  canon  lying  under  the  rim 
rock  in  fancied  security.  Near  him  were  several  other 
steers,  and  it  was  determined  to  make  the  attempt  to  cap- 
ture the  lot. 

Carefully  driving  their  bunch  of  gentle  steers  as  close 
to  the  place  where  the  outlaw  was  lying  as  they  could,  with 
the  thought  that,  if  he  ran  up  the  trail,  he  would  see  the 
steers  and  possibly  go  to  them  and  stop;  three  men  rode 
into  the  canon  some  distance  below  and  started  up  the  trail 
toward  where  he  was  lying. 

The  instant  the  blue-roan  saw  the  horsemen  he  jumped 
to  his  feet,  hesitated  a  moment,  and  instead  of  taking  the 
smooth  trail  out,  dove  down  the  steep,  rocky  sides  of  the 
canon  where  neither  horse  nor  man  could  follow. 

Surefooted  as  he  was,  he  misjudged  his  agility  and 
strength,  and  plunged  into  a  mass  of  loose  rock,  which 
gave  him  no  foothold.  The  walls  of  the  canon  were  fright- 
fully steep  and  in  the  loose  rock,  sliding,  slipping,  and 
rolling,  he  was  swiftly  hurried  towards  the  edge  of  a  cliff 
two  hundred  feet  high,  over  which  he  dropped  to  death  and 
destruction.  Tons  of  loose  rock  followed  him  to  the  bot- 
tom, making  a  roar  like  a  thousand  cannons.  It  was  the 
end  of  the  road  for  the  blue  roan. 


22          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

When  the  men  climbed  down  the  trail  to  see  just  what 
had  happened  they  found  him  dead  and  half  buried  in  the 
mass  of  fallen  rock. 

The  cliff  was  an  over-hanging  one,  smooth  and  soft 
enough  to  show  markings,  and  one  of  the  men,  taking  a 
piece  of  hard  flintrock,  spent  half  an  hour  cutting  deep  into 
the  smooth,  white  wall  the  words : 

"Here  died  the  Blue-Roan  Outlaw.    He  was  a  King." 


"Say,  Dad,  did  you  ever  pack  a  burro" 


CAMPIN'  OUT 

A  Bit  of  Family  Correspondence 

Camp  Roosevelt,  September  5th. 

DEAR  DADDY:  I  promised  to  write  every  day,  if 
I  could,  while  we  are  on  our  vacation ;  so  here  goes : 

My,  but  we  had  a  hard  time  getting  out  here.  Say,  Dad, 
did  you  ever  pack  a  burro?  Haven't  they  got  the  slip- 
periest backs  ?  Our  pack  turned  over  about  twenty  times 
and  scattered  the  stuff  all  over  the  country.  The  sugar 
spilled  out  of  the  bag  and  wasted.  Billy  says  that  don't 
matter,  though,  for  we  can  use  molasses  in  our  coffee,  like 
the  miners  up  in  Alaska. 

He  kept  running  into  all  the  open  gates  along  the  road 
(the  burro,  not  Billy).  The  way  he  tramped  up  some  of 
the  gardens  was  awful.  Billy  got  so  mad  he  wouldn't  chase 
him  out  any  more,  'cause  once  they  set  a  dog  on  to  him 
as  he  was  chasing  the  burro  out  of  a  f  rontyard. 

Billy  says  burros  is  the  curiest  things  ever. 

We  tried  leading  him  (the  burro,  not  Billy),  but  he 
wouldn't  lead  a  single  step.  He  ran  away  last  night. 
Billy  hopes  he  never  comes  back  again. 

We  are  camped  under  a  big  fir  tree,  with  branches  that 

23 


24          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

come  down  to  the  ground  just  like  an  umbrella.  The  creek 
is  so  close  to  camp  that  we  can  hear  it  tumbling  over  the 
rocks  all  night.  I  think  it's  great,  but  Billy  says  it's  so 
noisy  it  keeps  him  awake.  Billy  makes  me  tired,  he  does ; 
for  it  takes  Jack  and  me  half  an  hour  to  wake  him  up  in 
the  morning  to  build  the  fire.  That's  his  job. 

We  called  it  "Camp  Roosevelt."  Billy  wanted  to  name 
it  "Camp  Bryan,"  because  his  father's  a  democrat,  but  me 
and  Jack  says  nothin'  doing  in  the  Bryan  name,  'cause  this 
camp's  got  to  have  some  life  to  it,  and  a  camp  named 
Roosevelt  was  sure  to  have  something  lively  happening  all 
the  time. 

We  are  sure  having  a  fine  time  here. 

Your  affectionate  son, 

DICK. 

P.  S.  Tell  mother  that  tea  made  in  a  coffee  pot  tastes 
just  as  good  as  if  it  was  made  in  a  tea  pot.  She  said  it 
wouldn't. 

DICK. 

P.  S.  Pa,  did  you  ever  useto  sleep  with  your  boots  for 
a  pillow  out  on  the  plains  ?  Cause  if  you  did  I  don't  see  how 
you  got  the  kinks  out  of  your  neck  the  next  day. 

DICK. 

Camp  Roosevelt,  September  7th. 

Dear  Pa :  My,  but  the  ground's  hard  when  you  sleep 
on  it  all  night.  We  all  three  sleep  in  one  bed,  'cause  that 
gives  us  more  to  put  under  us.  I'm  sorry  for  soldiers  who 
have  to  sleep  on  one  blanket.  We  toss  up  to  see  who 


Campin  Out  25 

sleeps  in  the  middle,  for  the  blankets  are  so  narrow  that  the 
outside  fellow  gets  the  worst  of  it. 

The  first  night  the  burro  ran  off,  and  next  morning  Jack 
had  to  walk  two  miles  before  he  found  him.  Jack's  the 
horse-wrangler.  Isn't  that  what  you  said  they  used  to  call 
the  fellow  who  hunted  up  the  horses  every  morning  on  the 
round-ups  ? 

We  staked  him  out  the  next  night  (the  burro  I  mean, 
not  Jack)  and  we  all  woke  up  half  scared  to  death  at  the 
worst  racket  you  ever  heard  in  all  your  life.  And  what  do 
you  think  it  was?  Nothing  at  all  but  that  miserable  burro 
braying. 

Say,  Pa,  you  know  that  quilt  mother  let  me  bring  along, 
the  one  she  said  you  and  she  had  when  you  first  got  married  ? 
Well,  do  you  s'pose  she'd  care  if  it  was  tore  some?  You 
see,  on  the  way  out  the  burro  ran  along  a  barb  wire  fence 
and  tore  it,  the  quilt  I  mean.  Lots  of  the  stuffing  came  out, 
but  it  don't  show  if  you  turn  the  tore  place  down. 

This  morning  I  woke  up  most  froze,  'cause  Billy 
crowded  me  clear  off  the  bed  and  out  on  to  the  ground.  It's 
sure  great  to  sleep  out  of  doors  and  see  the  stars  and 
things.  We  put  a  hair  rope  in  the  foot  of  the  bed  last 
night.  Gee,  but  Jack  jumped  high  when  his  bare  feet  hit 
it.  He  thought  it  was  a  tarantula. 

My,  I  wish  we  could  stay  here  a  year. 
Lovingly, 

DICK. 

P.  S.  The  little  red  ants  got  into  our  condensed  milk 
and  spoiled  it;  leastways  there's  so  many  ants  we  can't 


26          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

separate  the  ants  from  the  milk.    Billy  left  the  hole  in  the 
top  of  the  can  open. 

Camp  Roosevelt,  September  9th. 

Dear  Pa:  You  know  Billy's  dog  Spot?  Well,  Billy 
said  there  was  a  wildcat  about  camp,  'cause  he  saw  the 
tracks.  So  I  went  down  to  a  house  below  on  the  creek  and 
borrowed  a  steel  trap  they  had.  It  was  a  big  one  with  sharp 
teeth  on  the  jaws. 

I  wanted  to  set  it  on  the  ground,  but  Billy  he  says, 
"No,  sir;  set  it  on  the  log  acrost  the  creek,  'cause  the  cat 
would  walk  on  the  log  and  couldn't  help  getting  caught. 

Besides,  he  said  if  we  set  it  on  the  log  and  fastened  it, 
when  the  wildcat  got  caught  he'd  fall  off  into  the  creek  and 
get  drownded  and  then  we  wouldn't  have  to  kill  him.  Billy 
says  that's  the  way  trappers  catch  mushrats,  so  they  can't 
eat  their  feet  off,  when  they  get  caught,  and  get  away. 

Well,  sir,  we  set  the  trap  and  tied  Spot  up  so  he  wouldn't 
get  into  it. 

In  the  night  we  heard  the  awfulest  racket  ever  was  and 
the  biggest  splashing  going  on  in  the  water.  It  even  woke 
Billy  up,  and  that's  going  some,  as  Uncle  Tom  says. 

It  was  'most  daylight  and  I  sat  up  in  bed,  and  there  in 
the  water  was  something  making  a  dreadful  fuss.  Billy  he 
looks  at  it  a  minute  and  says :  "Why,  it's  Spot.  Who  let 
him  loose?"  Then  we  all  jumped  up,  and  sure  enough  there 
was  poor  old  Spot  in  the  trap  by  one  front-foot.  The  chain 
to  the  trap  was  just  long  enough  so  he  didn't  drown,  but  was 
hanging  in  the  water  by  one  leg. 

Billy,  it  being  his  dog,  crawled  out  on  the  log,  unfast- 


Campin  Out  27 

ened  the  chain  and  tried  to  pull  Spot  up.  Some  way  he  lost 
his  balance  and  fell  into  the  creek  right  on  top  of  the  dog. 
Billy  was  real  mad  'cause  me  and  Jack  laughed  so  hard  we 
couldn't  help  him  a  bit.  Spot  was  pretty  mad  too,  for  he 
grabbed  Billy's  leg  in  his  teeth  and  tore  a  big  piece  out  of 
them — out  of  Billy's  pajamas  I  mean. 

Then  Billy  let  go  of  the  chain,  and  Spot  climbed  out  of 
the  water  on  to  the  bank  and  tried  to  run  off  with  the  trap. 
Billy  waded  ashore  too,  and  we  just  laid  down  on  the 
ground  and  hollered  like  real  wild  Indians.  Billy  he  said 
it  wasn't  any  laughing  matter  and  to  come  and  help  him 
get  Spot  out  of  the  trap. 

Say,  Dad,  did  you  ever  try  to  open  a  big  steel  trap — 
especially  one  with  a  spotted  dog  in  it?  Spot  wouldn't  let 
us  come  near  him.  Billy  coaxed  and  coaxed,  but,  no  siree, 
he  wouldn't  do  anything  but  just  snap  at  us  like  a  sure 
enough  wild  cat.  Meantime  Spot  he  howls  something  dread- 
ful. 

Then  Jack  he  remembers  how  once  in  a  storybook  a  man 
caught  a  mad  dog,  so  he  runs  to  the  bed  and  gets  a  blanket, 
and  while  Billy  and  me  talks  nice  to  Spot  from  in  front, 
Jack  he  sneaks  up  behind  and  throws  it  over  him.  Then 
Jack  grabbed  the  blanket  and  wrapped  it  around  the  dog's 
head  so  he  couldn't  bite,  and  we  both  stood  on  the  trap 
spring  and  managed  to  get  it  open  wide  enough  so  Billy  got 
his  foot  out  (Spot's  foot  I  mean,  not  Billy's). 

Has  he  come  home  yet?  'Cause  he's  gone  from  here. 
My  goodness,  but  camping  out's  sure  fun. 

Your  loving  son, 

RICHARD. 


28          Tales  from  the  X-Ear  Horse  Camp 

P.  S.  Billy  says  he  don't  care  anyhow,  for  Spot  had  no 
right  to  chew  the  rope  in  two  and  get  loose  so  as  to  get  into 
the  trap.  DICK. 

P.  S.  The  wasps  are  thick  here.  One  stung  Jack  on 
the  neck  and  he  hollered  awful  over  it.  I  made  a  mud  poul- 
tice for  it  like  you  told  me  once  you  used  to  do  on  the  plains. 

Camp  Roosevelt,  September  some  time. 

We  forget  what  day  it  is. 

Dear  Pa:  It  rained  last  night  real  hard.  We  didn't 
get  much  wet,  and  anyhow  Jack  says  camping  out  wouldn't 
be  any  fun  unless  you  slept  in  wet  blankets  once,  like  the 
cowboys  and  soldiers  do  on  the  plains.  Billy  says  his  Uncle 
John  says  a  wet  bed  is  a  warm  bed,  but  I  don't  believe  him, 
for  we  'most  froze. 

Pa,  what  makes  the  red  come  out  of  the  quilts  where 
they  get  rained  on?  Jack  says  we  belong  to  the  improved 
order  of  Red  Men  now,  and  if  my  face  looks  as  funny  as  his 
does,  with  red  streaks  all  acrost  it,  I'd  be  afraid  to  go  home. 

You'd  ought  to  see  the  fun  we  had  drownding  out  a  chip- 
monk  what  ran  into  a  hole  in  the  ground.  We  packed  the 
water  in  our  hats  from  the  creek.  Bimeby,  the  chipmonk, 
came  out,  and  I  ran  after  him.  He  was  so  wet  he  couldn't 
run  fast  and  I  made  a  grab  at  him  and  caught  him — no,  he 
caught  me  for  he  bit  my  finger  horrible  hard  and  I  couldn't 
let  go,  or  else  he  wouldn't,  I'm  not  sure  which. 

Billy  and  Jack  laughed  at  me  as  if  it  was  a  good  joke, 
but  I  couldn't  see  where  it  was  so  very  funny. 

Do  chipmonks  have  hydryfoby?  Billy  says  he  bets 
they  do.  Your  son,  DICK. 


Campin'  Out  29 

P.  S.  Jack  dropped  the  box  of  matches  out  of  his  shirt 
pocket  into  the  creek,  and  I  had  to  go  to  a  house  about  a 
mile  away  to  get  some  more. 

P.  S.  You  can't  make  a  fire  with  two  sticks  of  wood, 
for  we  tried  it  for  an  hour.  All  we  got  was  blisters  on  our 
hands.  The  Indians  must  of  had  lots  of  patience  if  they 
ever  did  it. 

Camp  Roosevelt,  Thursday. 

The  man  told  us. 

Dear  Daddy :  If  the  burro  comes  home  please  shut  him 
up  in  the  lot.  He's  gone  somewhere  and  we  can't  find  him. 
Anyhow  it  don't  make  much  difference,  for  Jack  says  he'd 
rather  carry  his  share  of  the  stuff  on  his  back  than  bother 
with  a  pack  burro  again.  There  ain't  going  to  be  much 
grub  to  take  back  anyhow.  The  man  down  the  creek  gave 
us  some  more  bacon  for  what  the  hogs  ate  up  and  said  we 
were  welcome  to  all  the  green  corn  we  wanted  from  his  field. 
We  had  just  corn  for  supper  last  night  and  breakfast  to- 
day. The  salt  all  got  wet  in  the  rain  and  melted  up,  so 
we  didn't  have  any,  but  Billy  says  lots  of  times  on  the  plains 
people  didn't  have  any  salt  for  weeks  at  a  time.  I'll  bet 
they  didn't  have  nothing  but  green  corn  to  eat,  though. 

Please  tell  mother  that  I  burned  a  hole  in  one  of  my 
shoes  trying  to  dry  them  out  by  the  campfire.  Also  about 
six  inches  off  the  bottom  of  one  leg  of  my  pajamas.  They 
were  hanging  on  a  stick  by  the  fire  drying  while  we  made 
the  bed.  Billy  said  he  smelt  cloth  a-burning,  but  we  never 
saw  where  it  was  till  the  harm  was  done. 

If  mother  won't  mind  I'm  sure  I  won't,  for  Billy  says 


30          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

no  soldier  or  cowboy  ever  wore  pajamas.  It  was  my  old 
pair  of  shoes  anyhow,  and  they  always  hurt  my  heel  when  I 
walked,  so  they  don't  matter  either. 

Camping  out's  sure  lots  of  fun. 

Your  loving  son, 

DICK. 

P.  S.  The  man  down  the  creek  says  he's  going  to 
town  pretty  soon  and  if  we  want  to  ride  in  with  him  we  can. 
I  wonder  what  made  him  think  of  it. 

P.  S.  A  wasp  stung  me  on  the  lip  yesterday.  He  lit 
on  an  ear  of  corn  just  as  I  went  to  bite.  It  don't  hurt  at 
all,  leastways  I'd  be  ashamed  if  I  made  as  much  fuss  about 
it  as  Jack  did  when  one  bit  him.  Besides  a  wasp  bite  on  the 
lip's  lots  worser  than  one  on  the  neck — that's  what  the  man 
down  the  creek  says. 

Camp  Roosevelt. 

Dear  Daddy:  Yesterday  we  sure  had  a  great  time 
playing  "Pirates"  without  any  shirts  on — for  Billy  says 
pirates  always  dress  that  way — just  their  trousers  on, 
"naked  to  the  waist,"  he  says. 

I  was  the  pirate  chief,  and  Billy  was  my  crew.  Jack  he 
was  the  captain  of  the  vessel  and  stood  on  the  log  to  defend 
the  gangway  of  his  ship. 

We  had  cutlasses  made  out  of  lath  and  when  we  told 
Jack  to  surrender  he  called  us  cowardly  pirates  and  dared 
us  to  step  on  board  his  ship. 

Then  we  went  for  him  and  was  having  a  great  old 
time  when  Jack's  foot  slipped  and  he  fell  off  the  log  into 
the  creek.  He  got  mad  at  me  and  Billy,  'cause  we  laughed 


C ampin  Out  31 

at  him  when  he  bumped  his  head  on  the  log  as  he  went  down. 

I  wisht  we  could  camp  out  here  forever. 

DICK. 

P.  S.  What's  good  for  a  burnt  finger  where  you  burnt 
it  trying  to  pick  the  coffee  pot  off  the  fire  to  keep  it  from 
boiling  over? 

Camp  Roosevelt. 

Dear  Dad :  If  there's  a  funny  smell  to  this  letter  it's  on 
account  of  the  skunk.  The  man  down  the  creek  says  if  we 
bury  our  clothes  in  the  ground  for  two  or  three  days  the 
smell  will  all  come  off. 

We  are  coming  home  tomorrow  in  his  wagon.  We're 
going  to  leave  the  bed  clothes  hanging  in  a  tree.  The  man 
said  he  wouldn't  take  them  home  if  he  was  us.  Anyhow  it 
don't  matter  much  for  a  spark  blew  onto  the  bed  one  day 
and  burnt  a  hole  right  through  them  all  clear  down  to  the 
ground. 

We  put  it  out  when  we  smelt  it.  It  didn't  hurt  very 
much,  for  we  changed  the  blankets  'round  so  the  holes  didn't 
all  come  together,  and  let  in  the  cold,  and  it  was  all  right. 

Please  kiss  Mother  for  me  and  tell  her  most  of  the  red's 
come  off  my  face  and  arms. 

Billy  cried  last  night  'cause  he  was  homesick  and  wanted 
his  Ma.  He's  a  sissy  girl,  Billy  is.  I'll  sure  be  glad  to  see 
you  and  Ma,  but  I  wouldn't  cry  about  it.  Please  kiss  Ma 
for  me. 

Your  affectionate  son,  RICHARD. 

P.  S.  Say,  Pa,  do  skunks  out  on  the  plains  look  like 
little  kittens  ?  The  one  we  caught  sure  did. 


POPGUN  PLAYS  SANTA  CLAUS* 

SALUTE  yer  pardners,  let  her  go, 
Balance  all  an'  do-se-do. 
Swing  yer  gal,  then  run  away, 
Right,  an'  left  an'  gents  sashay." 

"Whoa,  Mack,  there's  a  letter  in  the  Widow  Miller's 
box." 

The  pony  sidled  gingerly  toward  the  mailbox  nailed  to 
the  trunk  of  a  pine  tree,  his  eyes  and  ears  watching  closely 
the  white  sheet  of  paper  that  lay  on  the  bottom  of  the  open 
box,  held  by  a  small  stone  which  allowed  one  end  to  flutter 
and  flap  in  the  wind  in  a  way  that  excited  his  suspicions. 

When  the  Widow  Miller  wished  to  mail  a  letter  she 
placed  it,  properly  stamped,  in  her  box  and  the  first 
neighbor  passing  that  way  took  it  out  and  mailed  it  for 
her,  she  being  some  miles  off  the  regular  mail  route. 

"Gents  to  right,  now  swing  or  cheat, 
On  to  the  next  gal  an'  repeat." 

He  chanted  the  old  familiar  frontier  quadrille  call  as 
he  tried  to  force  the  pony  close  to  the  box  to  reach  the 
paper  without  dismounting. 

*By  permission  of  The  National  Wool  Growers1  Magazine 


Popgun  Plays  Santa  Clans  33 

"Stand  still,  you  fool,"  he  spurred  the  animal  vigorously, 
"that  there  little  piece  of  paper  ain't  going  to  eat  you." 

But  the  more  he  spurred  the  farther  from  the  box  went 
the  animal.  "Beats  all  what  a  feller  will  do  to  save  unload- 
ing hisself  from  a  hoss,"  he  threw  the  reins  over  Mack's 
head,  swung  to  the  ground  and  strode  toward  the  box. 

"Balance  next  an'  don't  be  shy ; 
Swing  yer  pards  an'  swing  'em  high." 

He  sang  as  he  lifted  the  stone  and  picked  up  the  paper 
beneath  it,  which  proved  to  be  a  large-sized  sheet  of  writing 
paper  folded  three  times.  A  one-cent  stamp  evidently 
taken  from  some  old  letter  was  stuck  in  one  corner  and 
beneath  it  was  scrawled  in  a  childish,  unlettered  hand  the 
words : 

"Mister  Sandy  Claws 
The  North  Pole." 

Almost  reverently  Gibson  unfolded  the  paper,  feeling 
he  was  about  to  have  some  youthful  heart  opened  to  his 
curious  eyes. 

"Deer  Sandy  Claws,"  it  began,  "please  bring  me  a  train 
of  railroad  cars,  an'  a  pair  of  spurs  an'  a  22  rifle  to  shoot 
rabits  with,  an'  a  big  tin  horn.  An'  Sandy,  Mary  wants  a 
big  Teddy  bare  an'  a  real  doll  what  shuts  her  eyes  when  she 
lays  down.  An'  Minnie  she's  the  baby,  Sandy,  so  pleas 
bring  her  a  pictur  book  an'  a  doll  an'  a  wolly  lam  an'  bring 
us  all  a  lot  of  candy  an'  apples  an'  oranges  an'  nuts,  for 
since  Dady  went  away,  we  ain't  had  none  of  them  things 
much.  Mother  she  says  you  know  jist  where  we  live  so 


34          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

don't   forgit  us   for   I've   tride   to   be   a   good  boy   this 
year. 

"James  Simpson  Miller,  7  years  old." 

Gibson  felt  a  lump  rising  in  his  throat,  and  took  refuge 
in  song  to  hide  his  embarrassment. 

"Bunch  the  gals  an'  circle  round; 
Whack  your  feet  upon  the  ground. 
Form  a  basket  break  away, 
Swing  an'  kiss,  an'  all  git  gay." 

He  wiped  something  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eyes  with 
the  back  of  his  buckskin  glove,  and  blew  his  nose  savagely. 
"Hm,  Shucks,  seems  like  I'm  a  gittin'  a  cold  in  my  haid," 
he  remarked  sort  of  confidentially  to  the  pony. 

Once  more  he  read  the  letter. 

"Hm,  Shucks,  wants  a  railroad  train,  hey?  An'  a 
gunchester  to  kill  rabbits,  an'  a  tin  horn,  an'  Mary  wants  a 
Teddy  bear,  does  she,  an'  apples  an'  oranges  an'  candy  for 
all  of  'em.  Say,  Bill  Gibson,  it's  up  to  you  to  play  Santy 
Claus  for  these  kids  an'  if  you  handle  the  job  right  maybe 
you  can  convince  their  Aunt  Nancy  that  she'd  ought  to  say 
'Yes'  to  a  man  about  your  size  an'  complexion."  Again  he 
broke  into  song. 

"Aleman  left  an'  balance  all. 
Lift  yer  hoofs  an'  let  'em  fall. 
Swing  yer  op'sites ;  swing  agin, 
Kiss  the  darlings — if  ye  kin." 

"Git  up,  Mack,  les  git  along  to  camp  and  let  the  bunch 
in  on  this  Santy  Claus  game.  Hm,  Shucks,  Nancy  said  she 


Popgun  Plays  Santa  Claus  35 

wanted  a  watermelon-pink  sweater — whatever  color  that 
may  be — to  wear  to  the  New  Year's  dance  up  on  Crow 
Creek.  Reckin  the  thing  won't  cost  more'n  a  month's  pay. 
I'll  jist  get  her  one  if  it  takes  my  whole  roll."  Once  more 
he  dropped  into  song. 

"Back  yer  pardners,  do-se-do. 
Ladies  break,  an'  gents  you  know. 
Crow  hop  out,  an'  dove  hop  in, 
Join  yer  paddies  an'  circle  again. 
"Salute  yer  pardner,  let  her  go, 
Balance  all  an'  do-se-do. 
Gents  salute  yer  little  sweets, 
Hitch  an'  promenade  to  seats." 

That  night  around  the  table  in  the  bunk  house  of  the 
Oak  Creek  Sheep  Company,  four  or  five  men  watched  the 
foreman  write  a  letter  to  the  owner,  Mr.  Barrington,  who 
was  wintering  on  the  coast.  Briefly  he  explained  how  the 
letter  to  Santa  Claus  fell  into  their  hands  and  the  desire  of 
the  men  at  the  ranch  to  furnish  the  children  with  all  the 
things  they  asked  for,  and  more. 

Miller,  the  foreman  explained,  had  been  accidentally 
killed  a  couple  of  years  before  and  his  wife  was  putting  up 
a  hard  fight  to  stay  on  the  piece  of  land  he  had  home- 
steaded  long  enough  to  get  title  to  it  from  the  government. 

There  were  three  kids,  he  continued,  James,  the  oldest, 
seven  years,  and  two  girls,  Mary,  five,  and  Minnie,  the 
baby,  two. 

"The  boys  ain't  a-limiting  you  in  the  cost,  so  please 
get  anything  else  you  and  Mrs.  Barrington  thinks  would 


36          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

please  the  kids  and  let  me  know  the  cost  and  I'll  charge  it 
up  to  the  boys'  pay  accounts. 

"Also  Bill  Gibson  wants  that  Mrs.  Barrington  should 
pick  out  what  he  says  is  to  be  a  'watermelon-pink'  sweater 
for  Mrs.  Miller's  kid  sister,  Nancy.  Bill  says  Nancy  is 
just  about  Mrs.  Barrington's  size,  and  what'd  fit  her  will 
fit  Nancy  all  right. 

"Bill  he  says  he  reckons  Mrs.  B.  will  savvy  what  a  water- 
melon-pink sweater  is,  which  is  more  than  any  of  us  do." 

Three  days  before  Christmas  Bill  Gibson  set  forth  for 
the  railroad,  twenty-five  miles  away,  to  bring  back  the  ex- 
pected Christmas  stuff.  There  was  two  feet  of  snow  on  the 
ground  and  the  roads  were  impassable  for  wheels ;  so  Bill 
took  with  him  two  pack  animals,  a  horse  and  a  mule. 

He  figured  he  would  be  one  day  going  and  one  coming 
and  that  on  Christmas  eve,  after  marking  and  arranging 
all  the  presents,  some  one  would  ride  down  to  the  cabin  and 
leave  the  whole  business  on  the  porch  of  the  widow's  cabin 
where  she  would  be  sure  to  find  it  early  Christmas  morning. 
At  the  railroad  Gibson  found  the  trains  all  tied  up  with  snow 
to  the  west,  and  the  packages  had  not  arrived. 

"Hm,  shucks,"  was  his  terse  comment.  "Now  wouldn't 
it  jist  be  hell  if  the  plunder  didn't  come  in  time  for  them 
kids  to  have  their  Christmas  tree  ?"  But  late  that  night  a 
train  came  through  which  brought  the  package  he  had  come 
for. 

By  unpacking  the  stuff  from  the  box  in  which  they 
were  shipped  Gibson  managed  to  get  everything  in  the  two 
kyacks  carried  by  the  mule  while  upon  the  horse  he  packed 
a  load  of  provisions  for  the  camp. 


I 

I 


Popgun  Plays  Santa  Claus  37 

Harrington  and  his  wife  had  added  liberally  to  the  list 
of  toys  and,  knowing  well  the  conditions  at  the  sheep  ranch, 
had  marked  or  tagged  each  article  with  the  name  of  the 
child  for  which  it  was  intended.  Even  Mrs.  Miller  had  been 
remembered  generously. 

The  sweater  was  there,  packed  carefully  in  a  fancy  box. 
Bill  loosed  the  ribbon  that  fastened  it  and  slipped  a  card 
into  the  box  on  which  he  had  laboriously  written,  "To  Miss 
Nancy,  from  her  true  friend,  Bill." 

But  the  storm  broke  out  again  and  it  was  long  after 
noon  the  next  day  before  he  dared  start,  for  the  wind  blew 
great  guns  and  the  air  was  filled  with  icy  particles  that  no 
one  could  face. 

Leading  the  pack  horse  with  the  mule  "tailed  up"  to 
him,  Gibson  started  for  home,  but  made  poor  progress 
through  the  drifted  snow.  It  was  almost  two  o'clock  the 
next  morning  when  he  passed  the  letterbox  at  the  trail  to 
the  Widow  Miller's  place.  The  moon  had  gone  down  be- 
hind the  trees  to  the  west  and  it  was  quite  dark,  but  here  the 
wind  had  swept  the  ground  bare  of  snow,  and  his  progress 
with  his  rather  jaded  animals  was  much  better. 

Sleepy  and  tired  from  his  long  ride  Gibson  reached  the 
ranch  and  rode  into  the  warm  stable  to  unsaddle.  There 
to  his  great  surprise  he  found  he  had  but  one  animal  behind 
him,  the  rope  which  had  been  around  the  mule's  neck  still 
dragging  at  the  pack  horse's  tail,  a  mute  evidence  of  what 
had  happened. 

"Hm,  shucks,"  he  commented  grimly,  "won't  them  there 
boys  in  the  bunk  house  give  me  particular  hell  for  this 
night's  work?" 


38          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

Wearily  he  unsaddled  and  unpacked  the  horses.  Still 
more  wearily  he  dragged  himself  up  the  path  to  the  house, 
stirred  the  fire  in  the  fireplace  into  a  blaze,  and  when  the 
coffee  was  hot  drank  a  cup,  ate  greedily  of  the  food  which 
the  cook  had  left  for  him,  crawled  into  his  blankets  and  in 
ten  seconds  was  dead  to  the  world. 

In  his  dreams  he  was  swinging  a  rosy  cheeked  girl 
through  the  steps  of  an  old-fashioned  quadrille,  she  being 
attired  in  a  most  gorgeous  watermelon-pink  sweater. 

"Swing  yer  pardners,  swing  agin ; 
Kiss  the  darlings — if  you  kin." 

He  essayed  the  kiss  only  to  be  awakened  .on  the  verge 
of  its  attainment  by  a  heavy  hand  on  his  shoulder,  followed 
by  a  voice  which  demanded  in  no  soft  tones,  "Where's  your 
Christmas  plunder?" 

He  sat  up  in  bed  half  dazed  by  his  night's  experience. 

"Come  alive,  Bill;  come  alive,  an'  tell  us  aboui  the 
things  for  the  kids.  We  can't  find  them  nowhere." 

Gibson  yawned  and  rubbed  his  eyes  in  a  vain  attempt 
to  delay  the  castastrophe  which  he  knew  would  encompass 
him  when  he  told  of  the  loss  of  the  pack  mule. 

Before  he  dropped  off  to  sleep  he  had  planned  to  get 
an  early  start  in  the  morning  back  on  his  trail  to  ^ry  to  find 
the  lost  animal.  Popgun  had  been  bought  from  the  widow 
soon  after  her  husband's  demise  and  he  shrewdly  guessed 
that  the  tired,  hungry  mule  would  most  likely  strike  direct 
for  his  old  and  nearby  home. 

He  sprang  from  bed  and  grabbed  his  clothes. 

"Hm,  shucks,"  he  began.     "I  reckon  I  done  lost  the 


Popgun  Plays  Santa  Claus  39 

mule  coming  home.  Had  him  tailed  up  to  old  Paint  and  just 
about  the  time  I  passed  the  trail  into  Widder  Miller's  place 
Paint  set  back  on  the  lead  rope  and  like  to  pulled  the  sad- 
dle offen  old  Mack,  me  havin'  the  rope  tied  hard  and  fast 
to  the  nub.  He  let  up  in  a  minute  and  come  along  all  right 
and  I'm  a  figuring  'twere  just  about  there  that  Popgun  gits 
loose,  he  probably  havin'  been  leaning  back  on  the  pack 
hosse's  tail  a  right  smart  causing  Paint  to  pull  back  his- 
self.  Popgun  likely  stripped  the  rope  over  his  head  and 
being  about  all  in  turned  off  down  the  trail  to  the  widder's 
and  it's  dollars  to  doughnuts  he's  a  eating  hay  in  her  shed 
right  now.  Me  being  tired  and  sleepy  I  never  sensed  the 
loss  till  I  gits  here  with  the  mule's  rope  a  dragging  along 
still  tied  to  Paint's  tail.  Hm,  shucks,  I'll  find  him  or  bust  a 
shoe  string." 

"An'  to  think  they  have  to  go  all  the  way  back  to  Af  riky 
to  git  ivory  when  there's  such  a  lot  of  it  to  be  had  nearer 
home,"  was  the  sarcastic  comment  of  the  foreman. 


From  the  windows  of  the  Widow  Miller's  cabin  the 
whole  world  seemed  wrapped  in  a  mantle  of  white.  Down 
along  the  creek  in  the  meadow  the  rose  bushes  and  willows 
poked  their  heads  above  the  snow.  Changing  their  skirts 
for  overalls,  she  and  Nancy  soon  picked  a  couple  of  quarts 
of  the  brilliant  red  berries  or  fruit  of  the  rose  bushes.  That 
night  as  soon  as  the  children  were  safely  in  bed  they  started 
in  on  their  Christmas  tree  preparations.  Several  days  be- 
fore Nancy  had  slipped  out  into  the  timber  and  cut  a  small 
spruce  which  she  dragged  to  the  stable  and  hid  under  some 


40          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

loose  hay,  and  with  an  empty  canned  goods  case  and  some 
stones  they  managed  to  make  a  very  satisfactory  base  for 
it.  Over  the  coals  in  the  fireplace  they  popped  a  huge  dish- 
pan  full  of  corn  and  worked  late  into  the  night  stringing 
popcorn  and  the  rose  berries  with  which  to  festoon  the  tree. 

"I've  seen  my  mother  use  cranberries  for  the  same 
thing,"  she  told  her  sister,  "but  these  rose  berries  look  quite 
as  well  I  think." 

From  the  pages  of  a  mail  order  catalogue  they  cut 
figures  from  the  brilliantly  colored  fashion  plates  which, 
pasted  upon  stiff  cardboard  and  hung  to  the  tips  of  the 
branches,  made  famous  decorations. 

Festooned  with  the  long  strings  of  rose  berries  and  pop- 
corn, with  these  gaily  painted  ladies  of  fashion  dangling 
from  every  bough,  it  made  a  very  satisfactory  Christmas 
tree.  After  placing  upon  it  the  presents  for  the  children 
which  they  had  been  able  to  buy  or  make,  together  with  a 
few  apples  and  oranges,  some  stick  candy,  each  done  up 
separately  in  paper,  "just  to  make  it  seem  more,"  Nancy 
said,  the  two  women  retired  for  the  night. 

How  long  she  had  slept  or  what  awakened  her,  Mrs. 
Miller  could  not  tell,  but  as  she  strained  her  ears  for  the 
slightest  sound,  she  imagined  she  could  hear  outside  the 
footfalls  of  some  heavy  animal.  She  knew  it  could  be  no 
bear,  for  whatever  it  was  the  snow  was  crunching  under  its 
feet,  nor  was  it  a  human,  for  the  steps  were  those  of  a 
four-footed  object. 

The  moon,  that  earlier  in  the  evening  had  flooded  the 
valley  until  it  was  almost  as  light  as  day,  was  now  just  dip- 
ping behind  the  mountain  to  the  west,  throwing  the  stable 


Popgun  Plays  Santa  Clous  41 

into  deep  shadow,  from  which  the  sounds  now  seemed  to 
come. 

There  was  a  bare  possibility  of  its  being  some  range 
cow,  although  they  had  all  long  since  drifted  down  into  the 
lower  country,  but  she  finally  decided  it  must  be  one  of  the 
big  bull  elks  which  regularly  wintered  on  the  wind-swept 
sides  of  the  mountain  above  them  and  sometimes  came  down 
to  the  ranch  seeking  feed  during  times  of  heavy  snow. 

Shivering  with  the  cold  she  crept  back  to  bed  realizing 
that  daylight  would  soon  come.  Rudely  her  dreams  were 
broken  by  a  sound  that  at  first  froze  the  very  marrow  in 
her  bones,  but  which  with  immense  relief  she  instantly 
realized  could  come  from  the  throat  of  but  one  animal  and 
that,  a  mule. 

Fortunately  the  children  slept  through  it  all,  and  dress- 
ing as  quickly  as  they  could,  she  and  Nancy  started  for 
the  stable,  Mrs.  Miller  armed  with  her  automatic. 

No  sooner  had  they  stepped  from  the  porch  than  the 
mule  that  had  been  hanging  about  the  stable  trying  to  get 
in  spotted  them  and  greeted  their  coming  with  a  series  of 
brays  and  nickerings  that  showed  his  joy  at  seeing  some 
human  being. 

It  was  Popgun,  the  pack  still  on  his  back.  Leading  him 
to  the  cabin  the  women  quickly  loosened  the  diamond  hitch, 
took  off  the  canvas  pack  cover  and  piled  the  kyacks  upon 
the  porch  after  which  he  was  placed  in  a  vacant  stall  in 
the  stable  and  fed. 

To  the  women  versed  in  frontier  ways  and  signs  the  so- 
lution of  the  visit  from  their  long-eared  friend  was  simple, 
and  they  sized  up  the  situation  almost  exactly  as  it  had  oc- 


42          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

curred.  Therefore  they  felt  certain  some  one  would  be  on 
his  trail  before  very  long. 

The  rattle  of  the  pack  rigging  on  the  porch  aroused  the 
children,  and  when  the  women  returned  from  the  stable  the 
two  older  ones  were  investigating  the  pack. 

Bidding  them  not  to  meddle  with  the  things,  Mrs.  Miller 
and  her  sister  went  inside  the  house  to  get  breakfast  leaving 
the  kids  on  the  porch.  Childish  curiosity  could  not  well 
be  stifled,  especially  on  such  a  day  as  this.  They  had  been 
told  stories  of  the  coming  of  Santa  Glaus  and  while  Jimmie 
had  learned  that  a  reindeer  looks  very  much  like  a  bull  elk 
he  had  once  seen,  he  also  knew  that  all  sorts  of  things  could 
be  packed  in  a  pair  of  kyacks  and  knew  no  reason  why 
Santa  should  not  have  availed  himself  of  that  means 
of  transporting  his  gifts  under  certain  conditions. 

To  loosen  the  straps  that  held  the  kyack  covers  was  an 
easy  matter.  To  lift  up  the  heavy  canvas  covers  was  still 
easier  and  the  first  thing  that  met  the  eager  eyes  of  both 
children  was  a  long  tin  horn  nested  down  in  some  excelsior. 
As  he  pulled  at  it  a  fluttering  tag  caught  his  eye.  On  it 
he  read:  "For  James — Merry  Christmas."  One  wild 
shout  of  delight  and  he  gave  a  blast  on  the  toy  that  brought 
both  women  to  the  door  just  in  time  to  see  Mary  drag  from 
the  kyack  a  huge  Teddy  Bear.  On  this  was  another  tag 
marked :  "To  Mary — Merry  Christmas." 

Before  his  scandalized  mother  could  collect  her  senses 
enough  to  stop  him  Jimmie  had  dropped  his  horn  and  gone 
on  a  voyage  of  exploration  into  the  depths  of  the  two 
kyacks.  One  of  his  first  discoveries  was  the  box  containing 
the  sweater.  The  tag  tied  to  it  cleared  up  in  a  measure  the 


Popgun  Plays  Santa  Clans  43 

doubts  which  Mrs.  Miller  had  had  as  to  the  propriety 
of  thus  making  free  with  other  people's  property,  and  that 
Santa  had  been  sent  by  the  men  at  the  sheep  camp. 


An  hour  later  a  man  rode  down  the  trail  back  of  the 
house  and  quite  out  of  range  of  its  windows.  Tying  his 
horse  at  the  side  of  the  stable  away  from  the  house  he  crept 
to  the  corner  of  the  building  and  cautiously  peeped  out. 

The  smoke  was  curling  briskly  from  the  cabin  chimney 
and  in  the  tense  stillness  he  could  hear  noises  which  in- 
dicated very  plainly  that  the  letter  to  "Sandy  Claws"  had 
borne  fruit,  for  the  most  ear-splitting  sounds  were  coming 
from  the  cabin,  sounds  which  he  knew  to  be  the  natural 
results  of  three  tin  horns  in  the  mouths  of  three  delighted 
kids. 

As  he  stood  there  a  door  slammed,  and  a  girl  stepped  out 
on  the  porch  arrayed  in  the  most  gorgeous  sweater  he  had 
ever  imagined.  On  her  head  was  a  jaunty  cap  of  the  same 
color  and  material  as  the  sweater,  while  in  her  hands  she 
held  a  tin  bucket  in  which  most  unquestionably  was  the 
breakfast  for  the  chickens  which  were  making  loud  demands 
for  release  from  their  log  coop  near  the  stable. 

In  his  inmost  heart  Bill  Gibson  knew  that  if  ever  a  man 
was  blessed  by  the  Gods  with  the  one  opportunity  of  his  life, 
it  was  facing  him  at  this  very  moment.  Nancy  came  trip- 
ping down  the  snowy  path  a  perfect  picture  of  girlish 
beauty  and  happiness.  Gibson  drew  back  so  she  could  not 
see  him  until  she  had  turned  the  corner  of  the  stable.  As 
she  did  so  and  met  his  eyes  the  song  turned  into  a  maidenly 


44          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

shriek.  Her  cheeks  were  blazing  like  two  peonies,  she  tried 
hard  to  speak,  but  the  words  died  on  her  lips.  Mechan- 
ically she  set  the  bucket  of  feed  on  a  small  shelf  where  the 
chickens  could  not  reach  it.  Bill  interpreted  the  move  as 
meaning  either  a  fight  or  complete  surrender.  He  believed 
it  was  the  latter  and  took  a  step  toward  her. 

"Christmas  gift,  Nancy,"  he  said.  His  voice  had  an  odd 
quaver  in  it.  "Old  Santy  seems  to  have  brung  you  the  sort 
of  sweater  you  wanted."  He  was  gaining  confidence. 

"He  sure  did,"  she  replied,  striving  in  vain  to  keep  her 
eyes  from  meeting  his. 

"Nancy,"  he  demanded,  "ain't  you  got  nothing  for  me 
this  grand  Christmas  morning?" 

"What  you  wanting  mostly?"  her  eyes  fairly  dancing 
with  mischief  and  telling  what  her  lips  dared  not. 

A  look  of  triumph  swept  over  the  man's  bronzed  face. 

"You — an'  I'm  a-going  to  take  it  right  here."  He  took 
a  step  toward  her;  she  turned  to  run  but  with  one  bound 
he  was  at  her  side,  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  fairly  smoth- 
ered her  with  kisses. 

He  drew  back  his  head  and  looked  deep  into  her  eyes. 
"How  about  it?"  he  demanded. 

"About  what?"  very  archly. 

He  kissed  her  a  dozen  times  before  she  replied.    Nor  did 
she  seem  to  object  to  the  action. 

"You  know  the  Christmas  present  I  most  want,  Nancy." 

He  drew  her  closer  to  him,  her  arms  found  their  way 
about  his  neck.  "Bill,"  she  whispered  in  his  ear,  "you're 
an  old  darling,  let's  go  up  to  the  house  and  tell  the  news  to 
sister." 


s£» 

^r 

Apache  Squaw  and  Baby 


"JUST  REGULARS" 

IN  the  dark  depths  of  an  Arizona  canon,  with  no  light 
but  that  which  came  from  the  stars,  a  string  of  shadowy 
figures  slowly  worked  its  way  through  tangles  of  thorny 
mesquite  and  cat  claw,  over  rocks  and  past  great  bunches 
of  cactus  which  pierced  hands  and  limbs  wherever  they 
touched. 

If  you  looked  closer,  you  saw  that  the  figures  were 
those  of  men,  also  horses  and  mules,  most  of  the  men  lead- 
ing their  mounts,  and  here  and  there  the  yellow  chevrons 
on  some  sergeant's  blouse,  or  the  broad  yellow  stripe  on  an 
officer's  trousers  showed  them  to  be  cavalry. 

There  was  no  talking  or  unnecessary  noise.  At  times 
they  were  fairly  on  their  knees  fighting  their  way  up  some 
rocky  steep;  again  they  dropped  down  into  the  darkness, 
the  well-trained  animals  following  like  goats. 

At  the  head  of  the  line,  an  officer,  young  in  years  but 
old  in  this  kind  of  work,  whispered  occasionally  to  the 
veteran  guide  at  his  left. 

Just  ahead  of  him  an  Apache  scout,  stripped  for  the 
fight,  a  band  of  red  flannel  about  his  forehead,  his  body 
naked  except  for  the  white  cotton  breechclout  ("the  G 
string")  about  his  waist,  the  peculiar  moccasins  of  his  tribe 

45 


46          Tales  from  the  X-Ear  Horse  Camp 

on  his  feet,  led  the  way,  like  some  bloodhound  on  the 
trail. 

Out  of  the  darkness  ahead  came  the  weird  hoot  of  an 
owl.  Three  times  did  it  sound.  The  scout  listened  till  the 
last  echo  died  away,  and  then,  with  his  hands  gathered 
about  his  mouth,  answered  the  call. 

Quietly  he  slipped  away  into  the  night,  the  command 
stopping  wheie  they  were  as  the  whispered  order  flew  back 
along  the  line,  each  man  sinking  down  to  the  ground,  glad 
of  the  chance  for  the  moment's  rest. 

The  night  was  cold,  although  it  was  midsummer  in  a 
region  where  at  noon  the  earth  is  baked  and  burned  with 
the  heat. 

An  hour  passed,  and  out  of  the  darkness  the  Apache 
returned. 

The  quarry  which  they  sought  was  not  far  ahead,  and 
it  was  best  to  leave  their  animals  and  go  the  rest  of  the 
way  without  them. 

Turning  to  the  tall  Sergeant  behind  him,  the  officer 
gave  the  orders  for  the  movement,  and  back  down  the  shiver- 
ing, scattered  line  went  the  instructions:  "Number  fours 
hold  the  horses,  every  one  else  take  all  extra  ammunition 
and  their  canteens  and  follow  the  column  on  foot." 

Then  came  whispered  pleadings  from  the  unfortunate 
"number  four  men"  doomed  to  remain  behind  to  guard  the 
horses  and  the  rear  while  the  others  went  on  into  the  dark- 
ness to — what?  Perhaps  death,  perhaps  a  wound  from  a 
poisoned  arrow ;  in  any  event  plenty  of  hardship  and  suf- 
fering. 

How  those  cavalrymen  begged  for  the  privilege  of  get- 


"Just  Regulars"  47 

ting  a  hole  shot  through  them.  They  urged  the  officers 
to  cut  down  the  rearguard  and  leave  but  a  couple  of  men 
to  look  after  the  packs  and  horses. 

"Very  well,  Sergeant,"  the  commanding  officer  replied, 
well  pleased  when  told  of  the  men's  desire  to  go  with  the 
fighting  force,  "leave  three  or  four  men  to  guard  the  animals 
and  let  the  rest  come  on ;  God  knows  we  are  very  likely  to 
need  them." 

Then  the  Sergeant,  knowing  his  men  as  a  schoolmaster 
his  pupils,  left  behind :  fat  Corporal  Conn  whose  asthmatic 
wheezings  and  puffings  had  already  brought  forth  many  a 
muttered  curse  upon  his  head;  Private  Hill  who  couldn't 
see  an  inch  beyond  his  nose  in  the  dark  and  who  had  fallen 
over  every  bush  and  rock  in  the  trail  since  they  entered 
the  canon;  and  two  other  men  whose  physical  condition 
was  such  that  he  doubted  their  ability  to  make  the  climb 
which  he  knew  was  ahead  of  them. 

Not  one  of  these  accepted  the  detail  without  as  vigorous 
a  protest  as  soldierly  duty  made  possible.  Bless  you  no ! 
Each  of  them  felt  himself  an  object  of  especial  pity,  fat 
Conn  even  claiming  that  the  higher  he  climbed  the  less  the 
asthma  troubled  him. 

Then  the  command  once  more  drove  into  the  blackness 
ahead,  following  the  lithe  Apache  up  a  mountain  side 
which  seemed  almost  perpendicular. 

Each  man  carried'  two  belts  of  cartridges  about  his 
waist  with  a  third  swung  from  his  shoulder.  Most  of  them 
wore  the  Apache  moccasin  which  gave  forth  no  sound  as 
they  moved  along. 

At  last  they  reached  the  summit  of  the  mountain 


48          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

breathless  and  tired.  Before  them  was  a  mighty  canon, 
the  canon  of  the  Salt  River.  To  their  left  four  granite 
peaks,  the  "Four  Peaks"  of  the  maps,  pierced  the  skyline 
like  videttes  on  guard  over  the  canon. 

From  its  bed,  two  thousand  feet  below,  the  dull  murmur 
of  the  river,  as  it  dashed  along  its  rocky  way,  came  softly 
to  the  soldiers'  ears. 

It  was  the  dawning  of  December  27, 1872.  The  soldiers 
were  a  detachment  of  the  Fifth  United  States  Cavalry, 
Major  Brown  in  command. 

At  a  little  spring  some  twenty  miles  away  they  had  left 
their  supplies  and  pack  train. 

Their  Christmas  holidays  had  been  spent  in  pursuit  of 
several  bands  of  Apaches,  and  the  scouts  had  reported 
that  a  large  band  of  them  was  located  in  a  cave  on  the 
Salt  River  canon. 

A  pack  mule  had  died  in  camp  that  day,  and  the  Indian 
scouts  were  allowed  to  make  a  great  feast  upon  its  remains 
that  they  might  set  out  on  the  expedition  with  full  stomachs. 

For  years  efforts  had  been  made  to  concentrate  the 
Apaches,  who  had  been  the  scourge  of  Arizona  and  the 
Southwest,  upon  one  or  two  reservations  where,  under 
guard,  they  could  be  watched  and  kept  in  bounds. 

In  the  summer  of  1872  General  George  Crook,  after 
having  held  numerous  councils  with  the  Apaches,  issued 
an  ultimatum  to  the  effect  that,  if  those  who  were  outside  of 
the  reservation  did  not  return  by  the  fifteenth  of  the  com- 
ing November,  active  operations  would  begin  against  them. 
After  that  date  every  Indian  found  outside  the  reservation 
was  to  be  treated  as  a  hostile  and  dealt  with  accordingly. 


"Just  Regulars"  49 

The  Apaches  knew  Crook  only  too  well,  for  the  "Old 
Grey  Fox,"  as  they  called  him,  had  always  kept  his  word 
with  them  in  the  past. 

Promptly  on  the  day  set  General  Crook  took  the  field 
against  the  outlaw  Apaches  and  hunted  them  down  relent- 
lessly day  and  night. 

The  region  in  which  these  operations  took  place  is  one 
of  the  roughest  in  the  United  States.  It  is  located  on  the 
western  side  of  the  great  "Tonto  Basin"  in  central  Arizona, 
and  consists  of  ragged  mountain  ranges,  and  isolated  peaks, 
while  the  whole  area  is  cut  and  seamed  with  deep  box 
canons  impassable  for  miles. 

About  fifty  miles  from  the  city  of  Phoenix,  as  the  crow 
flies,  and  near  the  great  Roosevelt  irrigation  reservoir  and 
dam,  four  granite  peaks  pierce  the  sky. 

Here  Nature  is  found  in  one  of  her  most  inhospitable 
moods,  and  in  the  fastnesses  of  these  "Four  Peaks"  several 
bands  of  the  hunted,  harassed  Apaches  took  refuge. 

In  its  mighty  canons  the  Indians  knew  of  caves  and 
cliffs  where  they  had  lived  in  safety  from  their  old  enemies 
for  many  years;  there  they  believed  no  white  man  could 
possibly  reach  them. 

Crook  and  his  soldiers  matched  wits  with  the  Indians 
and  beat  them  at  their  own  game.  Wherever  the  Indians 
went  there  the  troops  followed  them.  They  chased  them 
on  foot  when  their  horses  played  out,  lived  on  the  scantiest 
possible  allowance  of  food,  slept  in  the  deep  snows  with 
but  a  single  blanket  and  without  fires  lest  the  telltale  smoke 
give  the  Indians  warning  of  their  presence. 

It  was  to  surprise  the  occupants  of  one  of  these  caves 


50          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

that  Major  Brown  and  his  men  were  making  this  night 
march. 

There  the  Apaches  had  fled,  carrying  into  the  cave 
great  quantities  of  food  and  other  necessary  supplies, 
leaving  their  ponies  behind  to  shift  for  themselves. 

The  cave  itself  is  not  a  cave  in  the  strict  sense  of  the 
word,  but  rather  a  great  weather-worn  shelf,  similar  to 
those  used  by  the  ancient  cliff  dwellers  for  their  habitations 
all  over  the  Southwest. 

At  the  outside  edge  the  opening  is  about  fifteen  feet 
high  from  floor  to  roof,  and  sixty  feet  wide.  The  roof 
slopes  back  into  the  cliff  for  some  thirty  feet  to  a  point 
where  the  rear  wall  is  not  over  three  feet  high. 

At  the  front,  the  floor  of  the  cave  projects  some  little 
distance  beyond  the  overhanging  cliff  forming  a  sort  of 
platform.  Entirely  around  this  platform  the  Apaches  had 
raised  a  stone-wall  several  feet  high,  inside  of  which  they 
rested  in  fancied  security. 

On  top  of  the  mountain  Major  Brown's  command, 
which  numbered  but  fifty  men  and  officers,  with  two  civilian 
guides,  waited  while  the  two  scouts  wormed  their  way  into 
the  blackness  of  the  canon's  depths  in  an  attempt  to  make 
sure  that  the  Indians  did  not  have  any  pickets  outside  the 
cave  to  guard  against  surprise. 

The  cool  night  breeze  made  the  soldiers'  teeth  chatter. 
Some  dropped  off  to  sleep,  while  others  huddled  together 
under  the  lee  of  the  great  rocks  whose  surface  still  gave  off 
some  slight  warmth  stored  up  during  the  day.  Meantime 
they  cursed,  with  a  soldier's  vehemence,  the  slowness  of 
the  scouts  in  returning. 


"Just  Regulars"  51 

Finally  they  came,  dropping  into  the  midst  of  the  men 
as  if  from  above,  so  quietly  did  they  move. 

Five  minutes  of  whispering  followed  between  the  guide, 
the  Major  and  the  Indians,  and  then  Lieutenant  W.  J. 
Ross  and  a  dozen  men  crawled  away  into  the  darkness  with 
one  of  the  Indians  to  guide  them. 

Again,  those  soldiers  had  begged  to  be  taken  as  one  of 
the  party.  No  use  to  call  for  volunteers,  they  were  all 
volunteers  and  envied  the  fortunate  ones  whom  the  tall 
First  Sergeant  named  for  the  trip. 

Ross  was  to  endeavor  to  locate  the  entrance  to  the  cave 
in  order  that  the  rest  of  the  command  might  be  posted  in 
the  most  advantageous  positions.  His  party  dropped  into 
the  canon  and  was  quickly  swallowed  up  in  its  sombre 
shadows.  Down  they  crept,  stumbling  over  rocks,  treading 
on  the  "Cholla"  cactus  balls  that  covered  the  ground 
everywhere,  and  whose  sharp  needles  will  often  pierce  the 
heaviest  buckskin  gloves,  moccasins  or  even  leather  boots. 
A  misstep  meant  death  far  below  in  the  canon,  while 
every  minute  they  looked  for  the  crash  of  the  Indians'  rifles. 

As  they  felt  their  way  carefully  along,  they  saw  the 
faint  gleam  of  a  campfire.  Ross  worked  his  men  up  as 
closely  as  he  could,  placing  them  in  safe  positions  behind 
rocks  scattered  about.  By  the  light  of  the  fire,  they  made 
out  some  fifteen  Indians  standing  about  it  while  a  lot  of 
squaws  were  preparing  food  for  them.  The  fire  was  but  a 
few  feet  from  the  cave  which  could  be  seen  dimly  in  the 
background,  and  it  was  quite  evident  the  hostiles  felt  very 
secure  in  their  retreat. 

Scarcely  daring  to  breathe,  each  picked  out  a  brave  for 


52          Tales  from  the  X-Ear  Horse  Camp 

a  target  and  at  a  whispered  signal,  fired.  Those  of  the 
Indians  who  were  not  killed  fled  into  the  cave,  while  the 
report  of  the  carbines  quickly  brought  the  rest  of  the  com- 
mand down  into  the  canon. 

Major  Brown  placed  his  men  about  the  cave  so  as  to 
prevent  the  escape  of  any  of  the  Indians,  waiting  for  day- 
light before  attempting  further  operations. 

One  Apache  managed  to  work  his  way  out  of  the  cave 
and  through  the  cordon  by  some  means.  He  was  seen  after 
he  had  passed  clear  through  the  lines,  standing  for  an 
instant  on  a  great  rock,  his  figure  boldly  outlined  against 
the  sky.  His  recklessness  in  his  fancied  security  was  his 
undoing,  for  one  of  the  crack  shots  in  the  regiment, 
Private  John  Cahill,  took  a  hasty  shot  at  the  form,  and  it 
came  tumbling  down  the  steep  side  of  the  canon. 

After  Major  Brown  had  formed  his  lines  about  the  cave 
he  called  on  the  Indians  to  surrender.  This  they  answered 
with  cries  of  defiance,  followed  by  a  few  scattering  shots 
which  did  no  harm.  Later  on  Brown  again  called  on  them 
to  surrender,  or  if  not  that,  to  send  out  their  women  and 
children,  promising  no  harm  should  come  to  them.  Again 
the  Indians  refused  to  accept  the  offer.  They  heaped 
epithets,  dear  to  the  Apache  heart,  upon  the  soldiers, 
taunting  them  with  cowardice,  and  assuring  them  that  they 
would  soon  be  food  for  the  buzzards  and  ravens.  "May 
the  coyotes  howl  over  your  grave,"  is  a  favorite  Apache 
expression  of  contempt,  which  they  hurled  at  their  op- 
ponents many  times  during  the  fight. 

Daylight  came  slowly,  and  then  the  siege  was  on  in 
earnest.  Brown  again  renewed  his  offer  of  protection  to 


" Just  Regulars"  53 

the  women  and  children,  but  to  no  purpose.  Of  arrows 
and  lances,  as  well  as  fixed  ammunition  for  their  rifles,  the 
Indians  seemed  to  have  an  unlimited  supply.  They 
showered  arrows  upon  the  soldiers  by  hundreds,  sending 
them  high  into  the  air,  so  they  would  fall  upon  the  men 
lying  behind  the  rocks  scattered  about.  Lances  were  also 
thrown  in  the  same  manner,  but  they  were  unable  to  inflict 
any  damage  upon  the  besiegers  by  such  tactics.  The 
Indians  also  played  all  the  tricks  belonging  to  their  style 
of  warfare.  War  bonnets  and  hats  were  raised  upon  lances 
above  the  wall  with  the  intention  of  drawing  the  fire  of  some 
soldier  and  getting  him  exposed  to  a  return  shot.  But 
Brown  warned  his  men  against  all  such  schemes,  and  no 
harm  was  done  by  them. 

Twice  did  small  parties  of  the  Indians  make  bold  dashes 
out  of  the  cave,  evidently  with  the  intention  or  hope  of 
gaining  the  rear  of  the  troopers  to  harass  them  from  the 
heights  above,  or  else  to  secure  assistance  from  other  bands 
of  hostiles  known  to  be  in  the  vicinity.  But  these  sorties 
were  repulsed  by  the  soldiers  with  a  loss  of  several  Indians. 

Whether  the  trick  of  the  Indians  in  shooting  arrows  at 
such  an  angle  as  to  drop  on  the  men  behind  the  rocks  sug- 
gested retaliation  in  kind,  no  one  can  say  today;  but 
finding  direct  firing  without  any  great  effect,  Brown  con- 
ceived the  idea  of  having  his  men  aim  their  carbines  so  that 
the  bullets  would  strike  against  the  roof  of  the  cave ;  by 
so  doing,  he  believed  the  bullets  would  be  so  deflected  as  to 
strike  amongst  the  Indians  huddled  in  the.  small  space  below. 

For  some  time  the  soldiers  poured  their  fire  against 
the  rocky  roof  with  no  apparent  results,  although  the 


54          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

shriek  of  a  wounded  squaw*  or  the  pitiful  cry  of  some  child, 
struck  by  the  spattering  lead,  convinced  them  that  some 
of  the  bullets  were  finding  a  mark. 

The  Indians  fought  with  the  desperation  of  trapped 
animals,  but  finally  there  came  a  lull  in  their  fire.  From 
the  cave  came  a  weird  wild  chant.  It  was  the  death  chant 
of  the  Apaches,  which  the  scouts,  warned  the  officers-  meant 
a  charge. 

Soon  they  came ;  about  twenty  picked  warriors  clamb- 
ering over  the  rocky  wall,  with  the  most  desperate  courage 
and  recklessness.  All  were  armed  with  both  bow  and  rifle. 
Each  carried  on  his  back  a  quiver  full  of  the  slender  reed 
arrows  peculiar  to  the  Apaches  and,  with  a  volley  from 
their  rifles,  charged  the  soldiers  behind  their  rocky  breast- 
works. 

Pandemonium  reigned.  The  death  chant  was  taken  up 
by  the  squaws  in  the  cave;  the  crack  of  guns  in  the  deep 
canon,  the  shrieks  of  wounded  and  dying  squaws  and  chil- 
dren, the  yells  of  the  soldiers  as  they  met  this  fierce  attack 
of  the  desperate  savages,  the  flashing  of  rifle  shots  in  the 
darkness,  all  made  what  an  officer  who  was  present  (the 
late  Captain  John  G.  Bourke  of  the  3rd  U.  S.  Cavalry) 
once  told  the  writer  was  the  most  thrilling  as  well  as  the 
most  appalling  moment  he  ever  knew  during  a  lifetime  full 
of  exciting  incidents. 

But  the  efforts  of  the  despairing  Indians  were  fruitless, 
and  they  were  driven  back  with  heavy  losses.  Thus  the 
fight  went  on  for  hours.  The  sun  rose  high  in  the  heavens 
and  beat  down  on  the  scene  until  the  soldiers  lying  in  the 
hot  rocks  suffered  fearfully  for  water.  Major  Brown's 


"Just  Regulars"  55 

scheme  was  working,  however,  with  frightful  success.  The 
death  chant  was  ceaseless  and  the  cries  of  defiance,  rage, 
and  despair  rang  out  constantly  from  the  penned-up 
savages. 

One  little  Apache  boy,  possibly  not  over  four  years  of 
age,  toddled  out  of  the  side  of  the  cave  where  the  wall 
of  rock  was  open,  and  stood  gazing  with  wide-eyed  wonder 
at  the  sight  before  him.  One  of  Major  Brown's  Indian 
scouts  sprang  from  his  hiding  place  behind  a  rock  a  few 
yards  away,  and  running  to  the  child,  seized  him  by  the 
arms,  dragging  him  into  the  soldiers'  lines  before  a  single 
shot  could  be  fired  at  him. 

The  small  detachment,  left  behind  as  a  rearguard  and 
anxious  to  take  part  in  the  fighting,  worked  its  way  up  to 
the  cliff  above  the  caves.  Below  them  they  could  hear  the 
roar  of  carbines  and  the  shrieks  of  the  Indians.  By  means 
of  straps,  two  adventurous  soldiers  were  lowered  far  enough 
over  the  edge  of  the  cliff  to  get  a  clear  view  of  the  scene 
below.  The  wall  erected  by  the  Apaches  was  several  feet 
outside  of  the  line  of  the  cliff  or  cave,  and  from  their  dizzy 
height  they  could  see  the  Indians  lying  behind  their  ram- 
parts. 

The  top  of  the  cliff  was  covered  with  boulders  of  all 
sizes,  and  the  men  at  once  conceived  the  idea  of  dropping 
boulders  down  on  to  the  Indians  beneath.  This  forced 
them  to  take  refuge  from  the  flying  rocks,  by  retiring 
farther  into  the  cave.  When  they  did  this  the  ricochette 
fire  from  the  soldiers  became  more  deadly  and  the  end 
was  not  far  off. 

By  noon  the  firing  of  the  Indians  had  ceased.     No 


56          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

sounds  but  the  cries  of  the  squaws  or  groans  of  wounded 
came  from  the  interior  of  the  cave.  Brown  now  prepared 
for  a  charge  believing  that  the  cave  could  be  stormed  with- 
out much  if  any  loss.  Corporal  Hanlon  of  G-Troop,  5th 
Cavalry,  was  the  first  man  over  the  stone-wall,  the  rest 
following  him  as  rapidly  as  they  could. 

Inside  the  cave  was  a  scene  that  made  the  roughest 
soldier  among  them  shudder.  Men,  women,  and  children, 
either  dead  or  in  the  agonies  of  death,  were  lying  in  piles 
three  and  four  deep.  At  first  it  appeared  as  if  danger  was 
to  be  expected  from  some  wounded  Indian,  and  while  part 
of  the  soldiers  worked  among  the  debris  on  the  floor,  others 
watched  with  guns  in  hand  for  signs  of  hostile  intent.  But 
nothing  of  the  kind  occurred. 

Only  one  man  was  alive  and  he  died  soon  after  the 
soldiers  entered  the  cave.  Some  seventy-eight  dead  bodies 
were  lying  in  the  cave,  and  of  the  living  there  were  but 
eighteen,  all  squaws.  Many  of  the  wounded  squaws  could 
have  been  saved  had  the  troops  been  accompanied  by  a 
surgeon  or  even  provided  with  the  necessary  medical 
supplies. 

The  few  that  had  lived  through  that  awful  hail  of  lead 
and  rocks,  were  saved  by  screening  themselves  from  the 
missiles  under  great  slabs  of  slate  which  the  squaws  had 
packed  into  the  caves  for  cooking  purposes,  or  by  hiding 
under  or  behind  the  dead  bodies  of  their  comrades. 

The  fight  was  over ;  the  dead  babies  lay  in  their  dead 
mothers'  arms.  Rough  men  as  they  were,  the  sights  made 
the  soldiers  sick  at  heart;  such  warfare  was  not  to  their 
liking. 


" Just  Regulars"  57 

As  it  was  impossible  to  bury  the  dead,  they  were  left  in 
the  cave  where  they  fell  and  where  they  lie  today,  in  great 
heaps  of  skulls  and  bones,  together  with  clothing  and  other 
camp  impedimenta  which  have  survived  the  years  in  the 
dry  atmosphere  of  the  region. 

After  satisfying  themselves  that  no  more  living  were 
among  the  bodies  the  soldiers  tramped  wearily  back  to 
Fort  McDowell  with  their  prisoners  and  wounded,  and 
the  brief  official  report  of  the  affair  closed  the  incident. 

It  was  more  than  a  thousand  miles  over  desert  and 
mountain  to  the  nearest  railroad  station  and  civilization. 
No  war  correspondent  trailed  along  in  their  wake,  armed 
with  kodak  and  typewriter,  to  tell  a  waiting  world  of  their 
prowess ;  no  flaming  headlines  in  the  morrow's  paper  would 
cry  out  their  victory.  They  were  "just  regulars,"  and 
this  was  but  the  day's  work. 


THE  STAMPEDE  ON  THE  TURKEY 
TRACK  RANGE* 

DARK.  Well,  it  was  dark,  and  no  mistake.  We  had 
been  holding  a  big  herd  of  steers  for  a  week.  It 
was  on  the  Turkey  Track  ranch,  and  they  were  mostly 
Turkey  Track  steers,  that  is,  they  were  branded  with  the 
Santa  Maria  Cattle  Company's  brand,  which  is  a  design 
(/IS)  °n  each  side,  called  Turkey  Track  by  the  cowboys, 
who  never  think  of  using  any  other  means  of  identifying 
a  cow  than  by  giving  the  name  of  the  brand  she  carries. 

And  en  passant  when  a  cowboy  says  "cow,"  he  uses  the 
word  as  a  generic  term  for  everything  from  a  sucking  calf 
up  to  a  ten-year-old  bull. 

We  were  in  camp  in  a  noble  valley  some  fifteen  miles 
long  by  ten  wide,  dotted  here  and  there  by  cedar  groves, 
and  at  that  season  covered  with  splendid  grass,  where  we 
were  holding  a  bunch  of  steers  that  the  company  was 
getting  ready  to  ship ;  it  was  a  lazy  enough  life  except  the 
night-work.  There  was  plenty  of  grass  to  graze  them 
on  in  the  daytime,  and  a  big  "dry  lake"  full  of  water,  where 
three  thousand  head  could  drink  at  once,  and  never  one 
bog  or  give  any  trouble.  Two  men  on  "day  herd"  at  a 

*By  permission  The  Cosmopolitan  Magazine 

58 


The  Stampede  on  the  Turkey  Track  Range  59 

time  could  handle  them  easily  enough,  and  as  there  were 
nine  of  us,  or  enough  for  three  guards  of  three  men  each, 
we  didn't  have  anything  much  to  complain  of. 

"Old  Dad,"  the  cook,  built  pies  and  puddings  that  were 
never  excelled  anywhere,  and  occasionally  he'd  have  a  plum 
duff  for  supper  that  simply  exhausted  the  culinary  art. 

The  steers  were,  as  the  boys  say,  "a  rolicky  lot  of 
oxen."  Most  every  night  they  would  take  a  little  run, 
and  it  usually  took  all  hands  an  hour  or  so  to  get  them 
back  to  the  bed  ground  and  quieted  down,  which  didn't 
tend  to  make  us  any  better  natured  when  the  cook  yelled, 
"Roll  out,  roll  out,"  about  4 :30  every  morning. 

The  weather  had  been  lovely  ever  since  we  started  in, 
but  this  evening  it  had  clouded  up,  and  in  the  west,  toward 
sunset,  great  "thunder-heads"  had  piled  up  and  little  de- 
tached patches  had  gone  scudding  across  the  sky,  although 
below  on  the  prairie  not  a  breath  of  air  was  stirring.  The 
muttering  roll  of  heaven's  artillery  was  sounding,  and 
occasionally  up  toward  the  mountains  a  flame  of  lightning 
would  shoot  through  the  rapidly  darkening  sky. 

By  eight  o'clock,  when  the  first  guard  rode  out  to  take 
the  herd  for  their  three  hours'  watch,  it  was  almost  black 
dark.  The  foreman  or  "wagon  boss"  of  the  outfit  came 
out  with  them,  asked  how  the  cattle  acted,  and  told  the 
boys  to  be  very  careful,  and  if  the  herd  drifted  before  the 
rain,  if  possible,  to  try  and  keep  them  pointed  from  the 
cedars,  for  fear  of  losing  them. 

As  we  rode  back  to  camp  we  both  agreed  that  the  very 
first  clap  of  thunder  near  at  hand  would  send  the  whole 
herd  flying,  and  if  it  rained  it  would  be  very  hard  to  hold 


60          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 


THE  COWBOY'S  "SWEET  BYE  AND  BYE" 


f  t\ 


f'r  tr 

i>  r 

>    r   /I 

if  r  '  " 

\-4.  ^  f  |i  

IfeMJ 

r  rfTj 

^t 

The  Stampede  on  the  Turkey  Track  Range    61 

THE  COWBOY'S  "SWEET  BYE  AND  BYE" 
1 

Last  night  as  I  lay  on  the  prairie 

And  looked  at  the  stars  in  the  sky, 
I  wondered  if  ever  a  cowboy 

Would  drift  to  that  sweet  bye  and  bye? 

CHORUS 
Roll  on,  roll  on, 

Roll  on  little  dogies  roll  on,  roll  on; 
Roll  on,  roll  on, 

Roll  on  little  dogies  roll  on. 

2 

The  road  to  that  bright  mystic  region 

Is  narrow  and  dim,  so  they  say, 
But  the  trail  that  leads  down  to  perdition 

Is  staked  and  is  blazed  all  the  way. 


They  say  that  there'll  be  a  big  round-up 

Where  the  cowboys  like  dogies  will  stand, 

To  be  cut  by  those  riders  from  Heaven 

Who  are  posted  and  know  every  brand. 

4 

I  wonder  was  there  ever  a  cowboy 

Prepared  for  that  great  judgment  day 

Who  could  say  to  the  boss  of  the  riders, 
"I'm  all  ready  to  be  driven  away." 

5 

For  they're  all  like  the  cows  from  the  "  Jimpsons 
That  get  scart  at  the  sight  of  a  hand, 

And  have  to  be  dragged  to  the  round-up, 
Or  get  put  in  some  crooked  man's  brand. 

6 
For  they  tell  of  another  big  owner 

Who  is  ne'er  overstocked,  so  they  say, 
But  who  always  makes  room  for  the  sinner 

Who  strays  from  that  bright,  narrow  way. 

7 
And  they  say  He  will  never  forget  you, 

That  He  notes  every  action  and  look. 
So  for  safety,  you'd  better  get  branded, 

And  have  your  name  in  His  big  tally  book. 


62          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

them.  He  told  all  hands  not  to  picket  their  night  horses, 
but  to  tie  them  up  to  the  wagon  (much  to  the  cook's  dis- 
gust), all  ready  for  instant  use. 

Perhaps  I  should  explain  a  little  about  this  business, 
so  that  my  readers  may  understand  what  a  "bed  ground" 
is,  and  how  the  cowboy  stands  guard. 

At  sunset  the  day  herders  work  the  herd  up  toward 
camp  slowly,  and  as  the  leaders  feed  along  to  about  three 
or  four  hundred  yards  from  camp,  one  of  the  boys  rides 
out  in  front  and  stops  them  until  the  whole  herd  gradually 
draws  together  into  a  compact  body.  If  they  have  been 
well  grazed  and  watered  that  day  they  will  soon  begin  to  lie 
down,  and  in  an  hour  probably  nine-tenths  of  them  will  be 
lying  quietly  and  chewing  their  cuds.  All  this  time  the 
boys  are  slowly  riding  around  them,  each  man  riding  alone, 
and  in  opposite  directions ;  so  they  meet  twice  in  each  cir- 
cuit. If  any  adventurous  steer  should  attempt  to  graze 
off,  he  is  sure  to  be  seen,  headed  quickly,  and  sent  back 
into  the  herd. 

The  place  where  the  cattle  are  held  at  night  is  called 
the  "bed  ground,"  and  it  is  the  duty  of  the  day  herders, 
who  have  cared  for  them  all  day,  to  have  them  onto  the  bed 
ground  and  bedded  down  before  dark,  when  the  first  guard 
comes  out  and  takes  them  off  their  hands. 

Well,  as  I  said  at  the  beginning,  it  was  dark,  and  al- 
though it  was  not  raining  when  they  left  camp,  the  boys 
had  put  on  their  slickers,  or  oilskin  coats,  well  knowing 
that  they'd  have  no  time  to  do  it  when  the  rain  began 
to  fall.  " 

The  three  men  on  first  guard  were  typical  Texas  boys, 


The  Stampede  on  the  Turkey  Track  Range  63 

almost  raised  in  the  saddle,  insensible  to  hardship  and 
exposure,  and  the  hardest  and  most  reckless  riders  in  the 
outfit.  One  of  them,  named  Tom  Flowers,  was  a  great 
singer,  and  usually  sang  the  whole  time  he  was  on  guard. 
It's  always  a  good  thing,  especially  on  a  dark  night,  for 
somehow  it  seems  to  reassure  and  quiet  cattle  to  hear  the 
human  voice  at  night,  and  it's  well  too  that  they  are  not 
critical,  for  some  of  the  musical  efforts  are  extremely 
crude.  Many  of  the  boys  confine  themselves  to  hymns, 
picked  up  probably  when  they  were  children. 

A  great  favorite  with  the  Texas  boys  is  a  song  begin- 
ning "Sam  Bass  was  born  in  Indianer,"  which  consists  of 
about  forty  verses,  devoted  to  the  deeds  of  daring  of  a 
noted  desperado  named  Sam  Bass,  who,  at  the  head  of  a 
gang  of  cut-throats,  terrorized  the  Panhandle  and  Staked 
Plains  country,  in  Western  Texas,  some  years  ago. 

We  used  to  have  a  boy  in  our  outfit,  a  great  rough 
fellow  from  Montana,  who  knew  only  one  song,  and  that 
was  the  hymn  "I'm  a  Pilgrim,  and  I'm  a  Stranger."  I 
have  awakened  many  a  night  and  heard  him  bawling  it  at 
the  top  of  his  voice,  as  he  rode  slowly  around  the  herd. 
He  knew  three  verses  of  it  and  would  sing  them  over  and 
over  again.  It  didn't  take  the  boys  long  to  name  him 
"The  Pilgrim,"  and  by  that  name  he  went  for  several  years. 
He  was  killed  in  a  row  in  town  one  night,  and  I'm  not  sure 
then  that  any  one  knew  his  right  name,  for  he  was  carried 
on  the  books  of  the  cow-outfit  he  was  working  for  as  "The 
Pilgrim." 

I  lost  no  time  in  rolling  out  my  bed  and  turning  in,  only 
removing  my  boots,  heavy  leather  chaps  (chaparejos), 


64          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

and  hat,  and  two  minutes  later  was  sound  asleep.  How 
long  I  slept  I  can't  say,  but  I  was  awakened  by  a  row 
among  the  night-horses  tied  to  the  wagon. 

The  storm  had  for  the  present  cleared  away  just  over- 
head, the  full  moon  was  shining  down  as  it  seems  to  do 
only  in  these  high  altitudes  in  Arizona ;  not  a  breath  of  air 
was  stirring,  and  I  could  hear  the  measured  "chug,  chug, 
chug,"  of  the  ponies'  feet  as  the  men  on  guard  slowly 
jogged  around  the  cattle.  I  was  lazily  wondering  what 
guard  it  was,  and  how  long  I  had  slept,  when  suddenly  the 
clear,  full  voice  of  Tom  Flowers  broke  the  quiet  with  one 
of  his  cowboy  songs.  It  was  set  to  the  air  of  "My  Bonnie 
Lies  over  the  Ocean,"  and  as  I  lay  there  half  awake  and 
half  asleep  it  seemed  to  me,  with  all  its  surroundings,  that 
it  was  as  charming  and  musical  as  the  greatest  effort  of 
any  operatic  tenor. 

"Last  night  as  I  lay  on  the  prairie, 
And  looked  at  the  stars  in  the  sky, 

I  wondered  if  ever  a  cowboy 

Would  drift  to  that  sweet  by  and  by." 

The  voice  would  swell  and  grow  louder  as  he  rode 
round  to  the  campside  of  the  cattle,  and  as  he  reached  the 
far  side  the  words  "sweet  by  and  by,"  came  to  me  faintly 
and  softly,  as  if  the  very  night  was  listening  to  his  song. 

"The  road  to  that  bright,  mystic  region, 

Is  narrow  and  dim,  so  they  say, 
But  the  trail  that  leads  down  to  perdition, 

Is  staked  and  is  blazed  all  the  way." 


The  Stampede  on  the  Turkey  Track  Range  65 

I  had  never  heard  Tom  sing  this  song  before,  nor  had 
I  ever  heard  him  sing  so  well,  and  I  raised  on  my  elbow 
to  catch  every  word: 

"They  say  that  there'll  be  a  big  round-up, 
Where  the  cowboys  like  dogies*  will  stand. 

To  be  cut  by  those  riders  from  Heaven, 
Who  are  posted  and  know  every  brand.'* 

Here  an  enterprising  steer  made  a  sudden  break  for  liberty, 
and  the  song  was  stopped,  as  Tom  raced  away  over  the 
prairie  to  bring  him  back,  which  being  done  in  a  couple  of 
minutes,  the  song  was  again  taken  up : 

"I  wonder  was  there  ever  a  cowboy 

Prepared  for  that  great  judgment  day, 

Who  could  say  to  the  boss  of  the  riders, 
I'm  all  ready  to  be  driven  away." 

Another  interruption  which  I  judged  from  the  sounds  was 
caused  by  his  pony  having  stumbled  into  a  prairie-dog 
hole,  and  I  think  Tom  was  "waking  him  up,"  as  the  boys 
say,  with  his  heavy  quirkf 

That  done,  he  picked  up  the  thread  of  his  song  again 

"And  they  say,  He  will  never  forget  you, 
That  He  notes  every  action  and  look, 

So  for  safety  you'd  better  get  branded, 

And  have  your  name  in  His  big  'tally-book.' 

*A  dogie  is  a  name  applied  to  yearlings.'that  have  lost  their  mothers 
when  very  young  and  just  managed  to  live  through  the  winter. 

tQuirt,  a  short,  heavy  Mexican  riding-whip  used  by  cowboys. 


66          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

"For  they  tell  of  another  big  owner, 
Who  is  ne'er  overstocked,  so  they  say, 

But  who  always  makes  room  for  the  sinner, 
Who  strays  from  that  bright,  narrow  way." 

As  the  closing  words  floated  out  on  the  cool  night  air,  I 
turned  sleepily  in  my  bed  and  saw  that  a  huge  black  cloud 
had  come  up  rapidly  from  the  West  and  bid  fair  to  soon 
shut  out  the  moon.  I  snuggled  down  in  my  blankets, 
wondering  if  we  would  have  to  turn  out  to  help  hold  the 
steers  if  it  rained,  when  the  silence  of  the  night  was  broken 
by  a  peal  of  thunder  that  seemed  to  fairly  split  the  skies. 
It  brought  very  man  in  camp  to  his  feet,  for  high  above 
the  reverberation  of  the  thunder  was  the  roar  and  rattle 
of  a  stampede. 

It  is  hard  to  find  words  to  describe  a  stampede  of  a 
thousand  head  of  long-horned  range  steers. 

It  is  a  scene  never  to  be  forgotten.  They  crowd  to- 
gether in  their  mad  fright,  hoofs  crack  and  rattle,  horns 
clash  against  one  another,  and  a  low  moan  goes  through 
the  herd  as  if  they  were  suffering  with  pain.  Nothing 
stands  in  their  way :  small  trees  and  bushes  are  torn  down 
as  if  by  a  tornado,  and  no  fence  was  ever  built  that  would 
turn  them.  Woe  betide  the  luckless  rider  who  racing 
recklessly  in  front  of  them,  waving  his  slicker  or  big  hat, 
or  shooting  in  front  of  them,  trying  to  turn  them,  has  his 
pony  stumble  or  step  into  a  dog-hole  and  fall,  for  he  is 
sure  to  be  trampled  to  death  by  their  cruel  hoofs.  And 
yet  they  will  suddenly  stop,  throw  up  their  heads,  look  at 
one  another  as  if  to  say,  "What  on  earth  were  you  run- 


The  Stampede  on  the  Turkey  Track  Range  67 

ning  for?"  and  in  fifteen  minutes  every  one  of  them  will 
be  lying  as  quietly  as  any  old,  pet  milk  cow  in  a  country 
farm-yard. 

They  bore  right  down  on  the  camp,  and  we  all  ran  to 
the  wagon  for  safety ;  but  they  swung  off  about  a  hundred 
feet  from  camp  and  raced  by  us  like  the  wind,  horns  clash- 
ing, hoofs  rattling,  and  the  earth  fairly  shaking  with  the 
mighty  tread. 

Riding  well  to  the  front  between  us  and  the  herd  was 
Tom  trying  to  turn  the  leaders.  As  he  flew  by  he  shouted 
in  his  daredevil  way,  "Here's  trouble,  cowboys !"  and  was 
lost  in  the  dust  and  night.  Of  course  all  this  took  but  a 
moment.  We  quickly  recovered  ourselves,  pulled  on  boots, 
flung  ourselves  into  the  saddle,  and  tore  out  into  the  dark 
with  the  wagon  boss  in  the  lead.  I  was  neck  and  neck  with 
him  as  we  caught  up  with  the  end  of  the  herd,  and  called 
to  him:  "Jack,  they  are  headed  for  the  'cracks.'  If  we 
get  into  them,  some  of  us  will  get  hurt."  Just  then,  "Bang, 
bang,  bang,"  went  a  revolver  ahead  of  us,  and  we  knew 
that  Tom  had  realized  where  he  was  going,  and  was  trying 
to  turn  the  leaders  by  shooting  in  their  faces. 

These  cracks  are  curious  phenomena  and  very  danger- 
ous. The  hard  adobe  soil  has  cracked  in  every  direction. 
Some  of  them  are  ten  feet  wide  and  fifty  deep,  others  half 
a  mile  long  and  only  six  inches  or  a  foot  wide.  The  grass 
hides  them,  so  a  horse  doesn't  see  them  'til  he  is  fairly  into 
them,  and  every  cowboy  dreaded  that  part  of  the  valley. 

Jack  and  I  soon  came  to  what,  in  the  dust  and  dark- 
ness, we  took  to  be  the  leaders.  Drawing  our  revolvers, 
we  began  to  fire  in  front  of  them,  and  quickly  turned  them 


68          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

to  the  left,  and  by  pressing  from  that  side  crowded  them 
round  more  and  more,  until  we  soon  had  the  whole  herd 
running  round  and  round  in  a  circle,  or  "milling,"  as  it's 
called,  and  in  the  course  of  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  got 
them  quieted  down  enough  to  be  left  again  in  charge  of  the 
regular  guard. 

Jack  sent  me  around  the  herd  to  tell  the  second-guard 
men  to  take  charge,  as  it  was  their  time,  and  for  the  rest  of 
us  to  go  to  camp,  which  was  nearly  a  mile  distant  and 
visible  only,  because  "Dad,"  the  cook,  had  built  up  the 
fire,  well  knowing  we  wouldn't  be  able  to  find  camp  with- 
out it. 

Before  we  got  there  the  rain  began,  and  we  were  all 
wet  to  the  skin ;  but  we  tied  up  our  ponies  again,  and  five 
seconds  after  I  lay  down  I  was  sound  asleep  and  heard 
nothing  till  the  cook  started  his  unearthly  yell  of  "Roll 
out,  roll  out,  chuck  away."  I  threw  back  the  heavy  can- 
vas, that  I  had  pulled  over  my  head  to  keep  the  rain  out 
of  my  face,  and  got  up.  The  storm  was  over.  In  the 
East  the  morning  star  was  just  beginning  to  fade,  and  the 
sky  was  taking  that  peculiar  gray  look  that  precedes  the 
dawn  and  sunrise.  The  night-horse  wrangler  was  working 
his  horses  up  toward  camp,  and  the  three  or  four  bells 
in  the  bunch  jingled  merrily  and  musically  in  the  cool, 
fresh,  morning  air. 

We  were  all  sleepy  and  cold,  and  as  we  gathered  around 
the  fire  to  eat,  some  one  said,  "Where's  Flowers?"  The 
foreman  glanced  around  the  circle  of  men,  set  down  his 
plate  and  cup,  and  strode  over  to  where  Tom  had  rolled 
out  his  bed  the  evening  before.  It  was  empty,  and,  what 


The  Stampede  on  the  Turkey  Track  Range  69 

was  more,  hadn't  been  slept  in  at  all.  A  hasty  questioning 
developed  the  fact  that  none  of  us  had  noticed  him  after 
we  had  come  in  from  the  stampede. 

"Well,"  said  Jack,  "it's  one  of  two  things :  either  he 
has  run  into  one  of  those  blamed  cracks  and  is  hurt,  or  else 
he  has  a  bunch  of  steers  that  got  cut  off  from  the  herd 
in  the  rain  and  has  had  to  stay  with  'em  all  night,  because 
he  got  so  far  from  camp  he  couldn't  work  'em  back  alone." 
As  this  was  not  an  unusual  thing  we  all  felt  sure  it  was  the 
case,  and  after  a  hasty  breakfast,  all  of  us  but  the  men 
just  off  guard,  struck  out  to  look  for  him. 

Some  way  I  felt  a  premonition  of  trouble  as  I  rode  out 
into  the  prairie,  and  leaving  the  rest  to  scatter  out  in  dif- 
ferent directions  I  rode  straight  for  the  cracks.  It  was  an 
easy  matter  to  trail  up  the  herd,  and  as  I  loped  along  I 
couldn't  get  the  song  out  of  my  head.  As  I  drew  near  the 
crack  country  I  saw  by  the  trail  that  we  had  not  been  at 
the  leaders  when  we  thought  we  were,  but  had  cut  in  be- 
tween them  and  the  main  herd.  I  could  see  our  tracks 
where  we  had  swung  them  around,  leaving  probably  one 
hundred  head  out. 

I  hurried  along  their  trail,  and  as  the  daylight  got 
stronger  and  the  sun  began  to  peep  over  the  hills,  I  could 
make  out,  about  a  couple  of  miles  from  me,  a  bunch  of 
cattle  feeding.  I  knew  this  was  the  bunch  I  was  trailing, 
and  already  some  of  the  other  boys  had  seen  them  also  and 
were  hurrying  toward  them.  But,  between  me  and  the 
cattle  was,  I  knew,  a  dangerous  crack.  It  was  some  six 
feet  wide  and  ten  deep,  and  probably  half  a  mile  long.  If 
Tom  had  ridden  into  that  he  was  either  dead  or  badly  hurt. 


70          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

As  I  neared  the  crack  my  heart  sank,  for  I  saw  the  trail 
would  strike  it  fairly  about  the  widest  place,  and  my  worst 
fears  were  realized  when  I  reached  it,  for  there  lying  under 
a  dozen  head  of  dead  and  dying  steers  was  poor  Tom.  The 
trail  told  the  whole  story.  He  had  almost  turned  them 
when  they  reached  the  crack,  and  he  had  ridden  into  it  side- 
ways or  diagonally,  and  some  twenty  steers  had  followed, 
crushing  him  and  his  horse  to  death,  and  killing  about  a 
dozen  of  them.  The  balance  were  wandering  about  in  the 
bottom  of  the  crack  trying  to  get  out,  but  its  sides  were 
precipitous  everywhere. 

Drawing  my  six-shooter,  I  fired  two  shots,  and  rode 
my  pony  in  circles  from  left  to  right,  which  in  cowboy 
and  frontier  sign  language  means,  "Come  to  me."  The 
boys  quickly  rode  over  to  where  I  was,  and  we,  with  great 
work,  managed  to  get  his  body  out  from  under  his  horse 
and  up  on  top.  He  still  held  his  pearl-handled  Colts  in  his 
hand,  every  chamber,  empty,  and  his  hat  was  hanging 
round  his  neck  by  the  leather  string.  Tenderly  we  laid 
his  body  across  a  saddle,  lashed  it  on  with  a  rope,  and 
taking  the  boy  thus  dismounted  up  behind  me,  we  led  the 
horse  with  its  sad  burden  back  to  camp. 

I  think  death,  when  it  strikes  among  them,  always 
affects  rough  men  more  than  it  does  men  of  finer  sensibilities 
and  breeding.  They  get  over  it  more  quickly,  but  for  the 
time  the  former  seem  to  be  fairly  overwhelmed  with  the 
mystery  of  death,  and  seem  dazed  and  helpless,  where  the 
latter  would  not  for  a  moment  lose  their  heads. 

But  Jack  quickly  pulled  himself  together.  It  was  fifty 
miles  to  the  nearest  town.  With  our  heavy  mess-wagon 


The  Stampede  on  the  Turkey  Track  Range  71 

and  slow  team  over  a  sandy  road,  it  would  take  two  days 
to  get  the  body  there.  Packing  it  on  a  horse  in  that  hot 
Arizona  sun  was  out  of  the  question,  and  so  we  decided 
to  bury  him  right  there. 

Tom  had  no  relatives  in  Arizona,  nor  any  nearer  friends 
than  us  rough  "punchers,"  so  that  no  wrong  would  be  done 
any  one  by  burying  him  there. 

We  laid  his  crushed  form  under  a  cedar  tree  near  by, 
while  Jack  and  I  went  out  to  find  a  place  to  dig  a  grave. 
About  half  a  mile  from  camp  was  a  big  black  rock  that 
stood  up  on  end  in  the  prairie  as  if  it  had  been  dropped 
from  the  clouds.  Some  prehistoric  race  of  people  had 
carved  deep  into  its  smooth  face  dozens  and  scores  of  queer 
hieroglyphics  which  no  man  today  can  decipher  or  under- 
stand. Snakes,  lizards,  deer,  and  antelope,  turtles,  rude 
imitations  of  human  figures,  great  suns  with  streaming 
rays,  human  hands  and  feet,  and  odd  geometrical  designs, 
all  drawn  in  a  rude,  rough  way  as  if  the  rock  had  been 
the  gigantic  slate  of  some  Aztec  schoolboy  which  hundreds 
of  years  of  storm  and  weather  had  not  rubbed  out.  This 
rock  was  called  the  "Aztec  Rock."  It  was  a  landmark 
for  miles  around,  and  as  Jack  remarked :  "It  was  a  blamed 
sight  better  headstone  than  they'd  give  him  if  we  put  him 
in  the  little  Campo  Santo,*  in  the  sand  at  the  foot  of  the 
mesa,  back  of  town." 

So  here  we  dug  his  grave,  and  then  we  wrapped  him  in 
a  gorgeous  Navajo  Indian  blanket,  and  laid  poor  Tom 
Flowers  away  as  carefully  and  tenderly  as  in  our  rough 
way  we  knew  how. 

*Campo  Santo,  the  Mexican  term  for  graveyard. 


72          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

The  day-herders  had  grazed  the  herd  up  close  to  the 
rock,  so  that  they  could  be  at  the  grave,  the  cattle  were 
scattered  all  around  us,  and  the  cook  had  taken  out  the 
mess-box  and  used  the  mess-wagon  to  bring  the  body 
over  in. 

When  the  last  sods  were  placed  on  the  mound,  Jack 
with  tears  running  down  his  sunburned  face,  which  he  vain- 
ly tried  to  stay  with  the  back  of  his  glove,  looked  around 
and  said :  "Boys,  it  seems  pow'ful  hard  to  plant  poor  Tom 
and  not  say  a  word  of  Gospel  over  him.  Can't  some  of  ye 
say  a  little  prayer,  or  repeat  a  few  lines  of  Scripter?" 

We  all  looked  at  one  another  in  a  hopeless  sort  of  way, 
and  no  one  spoke  a  word  until  the  youngest  there,  the 
"horse-wrangler,"  a  boy  from  Indiana,  whom  we  had  named 
the  "Hoosier  Kid,"  spoke  up  and  said :  "I  kin  say  the  Lord's 
Prayer,  ef  that'll  be  any  good." 

"Kneel  down,  fellers,  and  take  off  your  hats,"  said  Jack ; 
and  there  in  the  bright  sunshine  of  an  Arizona  day,  with 
a  thousand  long-horned  steers  tossing  their  heads  and  look- 
ing at  us  with  wondering  and  suspicious  eyes,  with  no 
sound  save  the  occasional  hoarse  "caw,  caw"  of  a  solitary 
desert  raven  idly  circling  above,  that  dozen  of  rough  cow- 
boys knelt  down,  their  heads  reverently  bared,  while  the 
"Hoosier  Kid"  with  streaming  eyes,  slowly  recited  that 
divinely  simple  prayer  which  we  had  all  learned  at  our 
mother's  knee,  "Our  Father  who  art  in  Heaven,  hallowed 
be  Thy  name." 

As  we  rode  slowly  back  to  camp  the  words  of  the  last 
song  that  poor  Tom  ever  sang  would  come  to  me  again  in 
spite  of  all  I  could  do. 


The  Stampede  on  the  Turkey  Track  Range  73 

Ah,  me.  Poor  Tom.  It's  little  religious  training  you 
got  on  the  prairies,  or  the  trail,  or  in  the  cow  camp ;  but  if 
that  "Great  Owner"  looks  into  the  heart,  I  am  sure  He 
found  you  worthy  to  wear  His  brand,  and  to  be  cut  into  the 
herd  that  goes  up  the  "trail  that  is  narrow  and  dim." 


THE  NAVAJO  TURQUOISE  RING* 

'  T  TELL  you,  Miss  Nell,  it's  not  safe  for  you  to  ride  over 
JL  the  range  so  much  all  alone.  That  Navajo's  plumb 
crazy  about  you  now,  and  he's  liable  to  do  you  some  mis- 
chief." 

The  speaker,  a  handsome,  blue-eyed  young  fellow,  clad 
in  the  rough  garb  of  a  cowboy,  with  broad  sombrero, 
"chaparejos,"  his  buckskin  gloves  thrust  through  his  cart- 
ridge belt,  stood  leaning  against  the  door-post  of  a  typical 
Arizona  ranch  house.  In  one  hand  he  held  the  end  of  a 
long  hair  rope,  the  other  end  being  fast  to  his  pony,  which, 
all  saddled,  stood  pawing  and  restless,  eager  to  be  away  on 
the  range.  Slung  on  the  near  side  of  the  saddle  was  a  Win- 
chester carbine,  for,  between  white  and  red  thieves,  the 
cowboys  had  to  be  ready  for  all  sorts  of  emergencies,  and 
besides,  the  big  gray  wolves  were  beginning  to  show  up  on 
the  range,  and  a  wolf  scalp  was  worth  twenty  dollars  at  the 
county  seat. 

The  person  to  whom  these  remarks  were  addressed  stood 
idly  switching  her  riding-habit  with  her  "quirt,"  a  hand- 
some piece  of  cowboy  work,-  over  which  one  of  her  many 
admirers  had  spent  hours  by  the  light  of  a  campfire  plaiting 

*By  permission  The  Argonaut,  San  Francisco,  Cal. 

74 


The  Navajo  Turquoise  Ring  75 

and  decorating  it  with  "Turk's  heads"  and  other  fancy 
knots  known  to  cowboy  quirt-makers.  She  was  all  ready 
for  a  ride  and  waiting  only  for  her  pony  to  be  brought  up 
from  the  corral,  where  Juan,  the  Mexican,  was  saddling 
him. 

There  was  a  pleading,  pathetic  tone  in  the  man's  voice 
that  spoke  the  lover,  even  had  his  eyes  shown  no  sign  of 
passion ;  but  his  words  seemed  to  rouse  all  the  perversity 
of  her  sex.  Her  red  lips  curled  and  her  brown  eyes 
snapped.  "Oh,  pshaw,  Mr.  Cameron,  you're  always  wor- 
rying about  some  imaginary  danger.  Please  return  me  my 
ring — that  is,  if  you  have  finished  examining  it." 

A  red  wave  swept  over  Cameron's  face,  like  the  shadow 
of  a  cloud  across  the  prairie  on  a  bright  day,  and  he  stood 
for  a  full  minute  idly  turning  the  ring  in  question  upon 
the  very  tip  of  the  little  finger  of  his  own  sun-browned  hand. 
It  was  a  splendid  specimen  of  the  Navajo  silversmith's  art. 
Now,  the  Navajo  Indians'  blankets  have  made  them  famous, 
but  they  deserve  quite  as  much  fame  for  their  cunning  as 
workers  in  silver. 

This  ring  was  indeed  a  gem.  It  was  wide,  as  most  of 
their  rings  are,  cut  in  two  on  the  inner  side  so  that  it  could 
be  made  larger  or  smaller  by  "springing"  it  to  fit  any 
finger,  and  in  the  top  was  set  a  turquoise  as  blue  as  a  summer 
sky — a  stone  precious  to  the  Navajos — that  among  the 
tribe  would  have  bought  twenty  ponies,  a  hundred  sheep, 
and  squaws  galore.  Around  the  ring  ran  the  most  intricate 
and  delicate  carving,  and  the  whole  effect  was  at  once 
unique  and  barbaric. 

The  girl's  hand  was  outstretched  for  the  ring,  and  al- 


76          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

most  mechanically  the  man  turned  and  dropped  it  into  the 
upturned  palm.  "Well,  Miss  Nell,  I've  warned  you,  and 
I'm  sure  if  Mr.  Hull  were  here  that  he'd  feel  just  as  I  do." 
His  voice  grew  tense.  "I  can't  go  with  you  today,  for  I've 
got  to  go  over  the  other  side  of  the  mountain  to  see  if  I 
can  find  those  lost  horses,  and  won't  be  back  till  dark." 

The  girl,  scarcely  heeding  his  words,  took  the  ring,  and 
in  a  mock-heroic  sort  of  way  kissed  and  slipped  it  on  to  her 
engagement  finger,  a  gleam  of  mischief  in  her  eyes,  at  which 
action  Cameron,  stung  almost  to  madness,  smothered  a 
groan,  and  strode  across  the  porch,  his  spurs  clanking  on- 
the  floor,  gathering  up  his  hair  rope  as  he  went.  With 
one  hand  on  the  pommel  of  the  saddle  and  the  other  on  the 
pony's  mane,  he  leaped  lightly  into  his  seat  without  aid  of 
stirrup  and,  bringing  the  coil  of  rope  down  on  the  animal's 
flank,  went  off  down  the  line  of  wire  fence  on  a  dead  run, 
and  soon  turned  out  of  sight  around  a  low  hill  in  the  valley. 

The  girl  watched  him  in  silence  until  he  was  lost  to  view, 
and  then,  with  a  gay  laugh,  turned  into  the  room,  saying, 
"Poor  Cam,  what  fun  it  is  to  tease  him !" 

A  moment  later,  when  Juan  appeared  at  the  door  with 
her  horse,  she  pulled  on  her  pretty  buckskin  gloves,  and 
with  a  "Goodbye,  Mary,  I'll  be  home  by  noon,"  to  the 
heavy-faced  cook,  who  stood  watching  her  from  the  door 
of  the  log  kitchen,  she  rode  off  almost  as  fast  as  Cameron, 
but  in  a  different  direction. 

Three  months  before  these  happenings  George  Hull  had 
gone  down  to  the  little  railroad  station,  some  thirty  miles 
from  the  ranch,  to  meet  his  wife's  only  sister,  who  was  com- 
ing to  spend  the  summer  with  them  in  Arizona,  and  from  her 


The  Navajo  Turquoise  Ring  77 

first  day  she  had  taken  to  the  life  like  a  duck  to  water.  She 
was  a  fearless  horsewoman,  and  never  so  happy  as  when 
out  on  the  range  riding  with  the  cowboys,  if  they  were 
there,  or  alone  if  they  were  not.  Nell  Steele  was  a  warm- 
hearted, impulsive  girl,  but  she  could  no  more  help  mak- 
ing a  slave  of  every  man  she  met  than  she  could  stop 
breathing. 

It  was  an  easy  task  for  her,  too,  and  it  mattered  not 
whether  it  was  some  high-bred,  educated  gentleman,  or  a 
rough  Texas  "puncher"  who  had  never  in  all  his  life  spoken 
a  dozen  words  to  a  woman  of  her  class.  And  naturally 
with  such  surroundings,  with  men  unused  to  women's  wiles, 
she  soon  had  the  whole  country  at  her  feet. 

Of  them  all,  however,  young  Cameron  had  by  far  the 
worst  case  of  it,  and  the  girl,  while  in  her  heart  greatly 
pleased  with  his  attentions,  seemed  to  delight  in  keeping 
him  in  a  state  of  absolute  misery  by  alternately  raising  him 
to  the  very  highest  pinnacle  of  happiness,  and  again  drop- 
ping him  into  the  bottomless  pit  of  despair.  Deep  in  her 
heart  she  knew  he  was  her  ideal,  but  she  could  not  resist 
the  temptation  to  coquette  with  and  tease  him. 

Cameron  had  come  west  for  his  health  some  years  be- 
fore. Too  hard  application  at  college  had  seriously  im- 
paired his  strength,  and  he  had  been  ordered  to  live  in  the 
open  air  for  several  years.  Letters  of  introduction  to 
George  Hull  had  brought  him  to  this  ranch  in  the  high 
mountain  country  of  northern  Arizona,  and  he  had  taken 
to  the  cowboy  life  from  the  very  first,  until  now  he  was 
looked  upon  as  one  of  the  most  trusted  and  satisfactory 
"boys"  on  the  place. 


78          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

The  ranch  to  which  George  Hull  brought  his  pretty 
sister-in-law  was  located  near  the  line  of  the  Navajo  In- 
dian Reservation,  and,  as  the  Navajos  are  great  roamers, 
it  was  nothing  unusual  to  have  them  hanging  round.  One 
day  a  party  of  them  came,  bringing  in  some  horses  the 
boys  had  missed  for  some  time.  It  was  Miss  Steele's  first 
sight  of  the  Navajo,  and  she  came  down  to  the  corral, 
where  they  were  all  gathered,  to  see  them.  Among  them 
was  a  young  chief  named  Chatto,  who  had  attended  an  In- 
dian school  at  Albuquerque,  and  could  therefore  speak 
fairly  good  English.  He  was  a  picture  of  savage  finery. 
Around  his  waist  was  buckled  a  costly  belt  made  of  great 
plates  of  solid  silver ;  in  his  ears  hung  huge  silver  rings ; 
each  arm  was  clasped  by  bracelets  of  the  same  precious 
metal;  around  his  neck  were  yards  of  the  precious  silver, 
turquoise  and  shell  beads  so  dear  to  the  Navajo  heart;  and 
his  moccasins  and  leggings  were  thickly  studded  with  but- 
tons fashioned  from  dimes,  quarters,  and  half-dollars. 
Across  his  shoulders  hung  a  gaudy  Navajo  blanket,  and  his 
horse's  bridle  was  fairly  weighted  down  with  glittering 
trophies  of  the  Indian  silversmith's  skill. 

It  was  but  a  few  moments  before  Miss  Steele  was  barter- 
ing with  him  for  a  bracelet ;  but  it  was  of  no  avail,  he  would 
not  sell  it  at  any  price.  However,  when  the  other  Indians 
left,  he  stayed  behind,  until,  as  the  dinner-hour  was  nearing, 
the  boys  asked  him  to  eat  with  them.  It  was  soon  evident 
that  he  had  eyes  only  for  Miss  Steele ;  and  after  dinner  she 
spent  an  hour  talking  to  him  of  his  school  experience  and 
trying  to  learn  a  few  words  of  the  Navajo  tongue. 

The  next  day  he  returned,  and  the  next,  until  it  was 


The  Navajo  Turquoise  Ring  79 

plainly  to  be  seen  that  the  gay  laugh  and  brown  eyes  of  the 
girl  had  completely  bewitched  him. 

One  day  he  came  bearing  the  ring  I  have  described,  and 
shyly  offered  it  to  her,  insisting  that  she  must  place  it  on 
her  engagement  finger,  which  she  did,  never  dreaming  that 
the  boys,  keenly  watching  from  the  bunk-house,  had  put  him 
up  to  it,  telling  him  that  that  was  the  way  white  lovers  did, 
and  that  once  she  put  on  his  ring  she  was  his  by  all  the  laws 
and  customs  of  the  white  man. 

When  Cameron,  who  was  away  at  the  time,  heard  of  it, 
he  was  furious,  and  went  straight  to  Miss  Steele  and  urged 
her  to  return  the  ring  and  banish  the  Indian  from  the 
ranch.  But  she,  seeing  that  back  of  his  lover's  eagerness 
for  her  safety  was  a  lover's  jealousy  as  well,  affected  not  to 
believe  him,  and  declared  her  intention  of  keeping  and 
wearing  the  ring.  It  was  this  ring  that  she  had  kissed  so 
tragically  and  replaced  on  her  hand. 

On  leaving  the  ranch,  the  girl  gave  her  pony  an  almost 
free  rein  for  the  first  two  or  three  miles.  It  was  a  glorious 
morning  in  September,  when  the  sun  had  lost  its  greatest 
power,  and  the  air  was  fairly  intoxicating  in  its  freshness. 
The  range  never  looked  finer  than  it  did  now,  after  the  sum- 
mer rains  had  covered  it  with  a  wonderful  growth  of  grass 
dotted  with  millions  of  daisies,  black-eyed  Susans,  purple 
lupines,  and  dozens  of  other  varieties  of  prairie  flowers, 
which,  in  places,  fairly  made  the  air  heavy  with  their  per- 
fume. The  trail  led  her  over  a  wide  mesa,  and  at  its  high- 
est point  she  stopped  her  pony  and  drank  in  the  wondrous 
scene.  Away  off  to  the  north  the  great  tablelands,  or  mesas, 
where  live  the  snake-loving  Moqui  Indians,  hung  in  an  al- 


80          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

most  indescribable  grandeur,  blue  and  misty  against  the 
sky,  more  like  a  mirage  than  a  reality.  A  couple  of  saucy 
prairie  dogs  barked  shrilly  at  her  from  their  adjacent  vil- 
lage; a  coyote,  disturbed  by  her  coming,  skulked  hastily 
away  from  where  he  had  been  trying  to  surprise  a  little 
calf,  left  lying  under  a  sagebush  while  its  mother  went 
on  down  the  trail  to  water.  Above  her,  high  in  the  heavens, 
idly  circled  half  a  dozen  heavy-winged  turkey-buzzards, 
those  scavengers  of  the  prairies,  a  sure  sign  that  some- 
where below  them  an  animal  lay  dead  and  they  were  gather- 
ing for  a  feast.  As  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  were  rolling 
hills,  with  here  and  there  parks  of  cedars,  while  scattered 
over  the  prairie  were  hundreds  of  cattle  and  horses,  for 
George  Hull  was  one  of  the  heaviest  cattle-owners  in  north- 
ern Arizona,  and  this  was  the  heart  of  his  range. 

Across  the  valley  below  her  she  could  see  the  figure  of 
a  solitary  horseman,  which,  after  a  few  moments  she  de- 
cided to  be  Cameron,  although  she  had  thought  him  miles 
away  from  there  by  this  time.  Her  pony  having  recovered 
his  wind,  she  started  down  the  mesa  toward  the  approach- 
ing figure,  glad  to  see  some  human  being  in  all  that  waste 
of  loneliness  around  her.  As  she  drew  nearer,  she  saw  that 
it  was  no  white  man,  but  an  Indian,  the  red  sash  tied  around 
his  head  being  plainly  visible  at  quite  a  distance,  but  un- 
daunted, she  kept  on  her  course,  presuming  him  to  be  the 
Indian  mail-carrier  who  came  in  from  the  agency  twice  a 
week  with  the  mail-sack  tied  behind  his  saddle. 

As  the  distance  between  them  lessened,  she  saw  with 
great  uneasiness  that  it  was  her  admirer,  Chatto,  and,  with 
a  sort  of  guilty  fear  in  her  heart,  she  turned  off  the  trail 


The  Navajo  Turqiwise  Ring  81 

and  pushed  her  pony  into  a  lope  toward  a  bunch  of  horses 
grazing  near,  as  if  she  wanted  to  look  at  them  closer.  A 
glance  over  her  shoulder  showed  her  that  the  Indian  had 
also  turned  and  was  following  her,  and  the  girl,  now 
thoroughly  alarmed,  urged  her  pony  to  his  fullest  speed. 
The  Indian  called  to  her  to  stop,  but  she  only  rode  the 
harder.  Chatto,  however,  was  well  mounted  and  slowly 
gained  on  the  flying  figure ;  her  cowboy  hat  had  blown  from 
her  head,  but  was  held  by  the  string  around  her  neck  as  she 
urged  her  pony  with  voice  and  quirt. 

"Stop,  I  shoot!"  called  the  Navajo,  but  she  rode  the 
faster,  expecting  every  instant  to  hear  the  crack  of  his 
Winchester.  At  last  he  was  within  thirty  feet  of  her,  and 
she  felt  that  her  pony  had  done  his  utmost  and  there  was  no 
escape.  Another  look  over  her  shoulder  showed  her  that 
the  Indian  had  taken  down  his  long  rawhide  reata  and  was 
swinging  it  round  and  round  his  head  preparatory  for  a 
throw  at  her.  She  remembered  hearing  Hull  tell  of  Mex- 
ican and  cowboy  fights,  where  the  victim  was  roped  and 
pulled  off  his  horse  and  across  the  prairie,  until  every  sem- 
blance of  human  shape  was  dragged  out  of  it,  and  her  heart 
sank  within  her,  for  she  knew  by  some  woman's  instinct 
that  he  had  realized  she  had  been  fooling  him,  and  was 
thirsting  for  revenge. 

Faster  and  faster  they  rode,  and  nearer  and  nearer  he 
drew,  till  she  could  hear  the  "swish"  of  the  rope  through 
the  air ;  she  crouched  low  over  the  saddle  to  offer  as  small 
a  mark  as  possible,  meantime  praying  for  deliverance,  which 
in  her  heart  she  little  thought  would  come. 

Cameron  found  his  horses  but  a  few  miles  out  from  the 


82          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

ranch,  and,  quickly  rounding  them  up,  started  the  bunch 
toward  home  on  a  sharp  run,  arriving  there  not  long  after 
Miss  Steele  had  left.  Questioning  Mary  as  to  the  direction 
she  had  taken,  he  struck  off  again  on  the  range  in  a  course 
that  he  shrewdly  judged  would  enable  him,  as  if  by  acci- 
dent, to  meet  Miss  Steele  on  her  homeward  way. 

Some  three  or  four  miles  from  the  ranch  the  mesa  he  was 
crossing  ended  abruptly  in  a  cliff  some  two  hundred  feet 
high,  which  extended  for  several  miles  in  an  unbroken  line 
with  but  one  or  two  places  where  an  animal  could  get  up  or 
down.  The  view  from  the  edge  of  this  cliff  or  "rim  rock," 
as  it  was  more  commonly  called,  over  the  wide  valley  spread 
out  below  it  for  miles  and  miles  was  unexcelled,  and  Cam- 
eron, knowing  that  Miss  Steele  must  come  up  this  cliff  at 
one  of  two  places,  headed  for  the  one  he  felt  she  would  be 
most  likely  to  take.  As  he  drew  near  the  edge  of  the  mesa 
he  left  the  trail  and  rode  over  to  the  cliff ;  and  thinking  per- 
haps to  surprise  a  bunch  of  antelope  feeding  quietly  in  the 
valley  below  him,  as  well  as  to  prevent  Miss  Steele  from 
first  seeing  him,  should  she  chance  to  be  below,  he  left  his 
pony  under  a  cedar  and,  taking  his  Winchester  in  his  hand, 
carefully  walked  up  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff. 

The  road  leading  down  to  the  valley  ran  close  under 
the  cliff  and  was  lost  to  sight  around  a  point  of  the  mesa 
but  a  short  distance  to  his  right.  Carefully  scanning  the 
prairie,  he  could  see  no  one,  but,  from  the  way  three  or 
four  bunches  of  wild  horses  were  tearing  across  the  valley 
below  him,  he  felt  satisfied,  that  either  she  or  some  one  else 
had  started  them,  and  concluded  to  wait  a  few  moments. 

Suddenly,  from  far  below,  came  a  sound  that  for  an  in- 


The  Navajo  Turquoise  Ring  83 

stant  sent  his  heart  to  his  throat,  for  it  seemed  as  if  he  heard 
a  woman's  voice,  borne  upward  from  around  the  point  to 
his  right,  and  yet  it  was  far  more  likely  to  be  the  almost  hu- 
man cry  of  a  mountain  lion,  or  even  the  childish  yell  of 
some  lone  coyote,  either  of  which  could  readily  be  mistaken 
for  a  female  voice  in  distress.  As  Cameron  stood  there,  fair- 
ly holding  his  breath  in  his  eagerness  to  catch  the  faintest 
sound  from  below,  one  moment  assuring  himself  that  his 
ears  were  at  fault  and  the  next  so  certain  that  it  was  a  wo- 
man's voice  that  he  could  scarcely  wait  for  its  repetition  in 
order  that  he  could  be  sure  which  way  to  go,  once  again 
there  came  faintly  and  yet  more  definitely  than  before  the 
cry  of  distress.  The  voice  was  Miss  Steele's,  and  before  he 
was  really  sure  from  which  quarter  it  came,  there  burst  into 
sight  around  the  point  of  the  mesa,  not  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away  from  him  but  down  in  the  valley,  the  figure  of  a  girl 
on  horseback  leaning  low  over  her  pony's  neck,  and  urging 
him  to  his  utmost  speed  on  the  road  leading  up  to  the  cliff, 
while  some  forty  or  fifty  feet  behind  her,  riding  as  hard  as 
she  was  the  Navajo  Chatto,  his  red  head-band  gone,  his 
long  black  hair  streaming  out  in  the  wind,  and  whirling 
over  his  head  in  a  great  loop  his  rawhide  reata. 

It  took  Cameron  but  an  instant  to  grasp  the  situation 
and  see  that  the  Indian  had  tried  to  overtake  the  girl,  and 
failing,  meant  to  rope  and  drag  her  from  her  horse.  He 
quickly  saw  also  that  busied  with  his  reata,  and  not  having 
a  chance  to  use  the  quirt,  his  pony  was  falling  slightly  be- 
hind, for  the  Navajos  seldom  wear  spurs,  and  the  girl  was 
not  sparing  her  pony's  flanks,  but  was  using  her  quirt  at 
every  jump.  Cameron's  first  impulse  was  to  spring  down 


84          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

the  cliff,  and  run  to  her  aid,  but  with  a  groan  he  realized 
that  it  would  take  him  too  long  to  do  this,  for  it  was  only 
by  careful  climbing  that  one  could  get  down  the  first  forty 
or  fifty  feet  of  the  wall,  and  then  the  rest  would  be  slow 
traveling  at  the  very  best.  The  race  below  him  was  in  plain 
view  now,  and  in  a  few  rods  more  they  would  pass  out  of 
his  sight  in  the*  little  side  canon  through  which  the  road  led 
up  to  the  top  of  the  cliff.  To  ride  back  to  that  place  would 
take  too  long,  also-,  and  the  man  quickly  realized  that  it  was 
no  time  to  delay. 

To  kill  a  Navajo  meant  trouble  for  everybody  around, 
for  the  whole  tribe  would  take  it  up,  and  wreak  vengeance 
upon  any  white  settlers  they  could  find,  hence  that  was  not 
to  be  thought  of  except  in  the  last  extremity.  But  Cameron 
knew  that  he  could  kill  the  Navajo's  pony  and  save  the  girl. 
Throwing  his  Winchester  over  a  rock  for  a  rest,  with  a 
mental  estimate  of  five  hundred  yards'  distance  to  his  mark, 
he  took  careful  aim  at  the  shoulder  of  the  Indian's  pony  and 
sent  a  shot  which  sped  fair  and  true  to  its  mark,  the  animal 
rolling  headlong  in  the  dirt,  and  thte  rider  sprawling  fully 
twenty  feet  away,  but  unharmed. 

For  an  instant  the  Indian  was  stunned,  then,  evidently 
thinking  his  pony  had  fallen  by  accident,  arose  and  started 
toward  him.  Cameron,  however,  was  ready  for  this  move. 
Presuming  the  Navajo  would  try  to  get  his  rifle,  which  was 
slung  in  its  holster  underneath  the  dead  horse,  he  sent  a 
second  shot,  before  Chatto  could  get  half  way  to  the  body, 
striking  the  ground  close  enough  to  him  to  convince  him 
as  to  the  cause  of  the  pony's  fall.  With  true  Indian  in- 
stinct he  turned  and,  to  disconcert  Cameron's  aim,  ran  in  a 


The  Navajo  Turquoise  Ring  85 

zig-zag  way  to  a  deep  ditch,  or  wash,  near  the  road,  into 
which  he  threw  himself  and  crawled  and  wormed  his  way 
down  to  where  the  sides  were  high  enough  to  shelter  his 
body. 

Meantime  Cameron,  not  daring  to  leave  his  place  until 
he  knew  the  girl  was  safely  up  the  cliff,  forced  the  Navajo 
to  keep  to  cover  by  firing  an  occasional  shot  in  his  direction, 
until,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  he  saw  the  girl  "raise  the  hill"  at 
his  left,  and  stood  up  and  waved  his  hat  to  her.  Up  to 
this  time  she  had  scarcely  known  to  what  cause  she  owed 
her  deliverance.  All  she  knew  was  that  a  shot  had  been 
fired,  and  she  heard  no  more  thunder  of  horse's  hoofs  be- 
hind her,  but  not  being  too  sure  of  what  it  all  meant,  she 
never  drew  rein  nor  spared  her  pony  until  she  saw  Cam- 
eron's figure  on  the  cliff  and  knew  that  she  was  safe. 

A  few  moments  later  an  hysterical,  sobbing  girl  threw 
herself  from  her  saddle  straight  into  the  arms  of  the  man 
who  loved  her,  and  whom,  she  now  knew,  she  loved. 


AN  ARIZONA  ETUDE 

"TAS'  time  I  was  in  Fo't  Worth,"  drawled  Peg  Leg 

J J  Russel  who  was  industriously  working  away,  with 

marlin  spike  and  leather  strings,  on  a  new  quirt,  "I  seen  a 
circus  band  there  a-ridin'  hosses  an'  a-playin'  at  the  same 
time." 

"Makin'  sure  enuff  music  ?"  queried  one  of  the  boys. 

"They  sure  was,"  replied  Peg  Leg ;  "an'  what's  more, 
them  ole  white  hosses  they  was  a-ridin'  never  batted  an  eye, 
but  jist  tromped  along  like  a  bunch  of  hearse  horses. 

"I'd  sure  love  to  see  'em  try  any  such  funny  business 
with  these  yere  little  ole  diggers  we're  a-ridin',"  he  con- 
tinued, "Lordy,  but  wouldn't  they  git  up  an'  rag  when 
the  first  toot  come  off." 

"If  ye'd  been  wid  me  in  the  good  old  'gallopin'  Sixth 
Cavalry,'  ye'd  sure  had  a  chanst  to  observe  jist  such  a  per- 
formance," said  Pat  the  cook,  who  was  busy  at  the  mess 
box  with  supper  preparations. 

The  mess  wagon  was  backed  up  into  the  shade  of  a 
great,  wide-spreading  juniper,  and  the  outfit  was  waiting 
fehere  a  few  days  for  a  bunch  of  fresh  saddle  horses  from  the 
horse  camp.  Ten  or  a  dozen  punchers  were  lying  about  in 
the  shade,  some  asleep,  some  overhauling  "war  bags,"  sun- 


An  Arizona  Etude  87 

ning  bedding,  and  others  like  Russel  making  quirts  or  hair 
ropes. 

The  old  red-headed  cook's  army  experiences  were  the 
butt  of  a  great  many  sly  jokes  among  the  men,  but  he  al- 
ways had  something  new  to  relate,  and  the  intimation,  that 
he  had  seen  a  band  mounted  on  western  horses,  was  enough 
to  excite  their  curiosity. 

"Tell  us  about  it,  Pat,"  said  Tex,  "them  Sixth  Cavalry 
fellers  sure  rode  the  outpitchenest  lot  of  bronks  I  ever  see 
outside  of  a  cow-outfit.  I  reckin'  I'd  oughter  know,  fer  I 
were  a  workin'  fer  old  man  White  down  in  the  San  Simon 
Valley  clost  to  Fort  Bowie  in  them  days." 

Any  reference  to  the  old  man's  former  regiment  warmed 
the  cockles  of  the  cook's  heart,  and  he  needed  no  urging  to 
start  him  off  on  the  story. 

"We  was  all  a-layin'  up  at  old  Fort  Tonto,"  he  said 
rolling  out,  with  an  empty  beer  bottle,  what  Russel  said  was 
the  "lid"  of  a  dried  apple  pie,  "the  whole  regiment  being 
there  after  two  years  spent  chasin'  over  them  hills  and  des- 
erts trying  to  catch  those  divils  of  Apaches. 

"  'Twere  the  first  time  in  three  years  we'd  seen  the  band, 
an'  when  the  General  sent  word  for  them  bandsmen  to  come 
up  from  Camp  Lowell  we  sure  felt  mighty  pleased,  for, 
barrin'  a  couple  of  fiddles  an'  Danny  Hogan's  concertina, 
there  wasn't  any  music  worth  mentioning  in  the  whole  post. 

"The  old  general  had  been  over  in  Europe  the  year  be- 
fore an'  picked  up  a  lot  of  cranky  idees  about  soldiering 
which  didn't  set  well  on  the  old  Sixth,  them  bein'  a  bunch  of 
rough  ridin'  hombres,  very  divils  for  fightin',  but  wid  mighty 
little  love  for  drills  an'  garrison  duty. 


88          Tales  from  the  X-Ear  Horse  Camp 

"Wan  day,  I  was  the  gineral's  orderly,  an'  a  standin' 
outside  the  door  to  his  quarters,  I  could  hear  him  an'  the 
adjutant  a-wranglin'  about  dress  parade  for  next  Sunday. 

"The  old  man  he  was  insistin'  that  them  bandsmen  could 
play  mounted  instead  of  afoot.  'Why,'  ses  he,  'didn't  I 
see  wid  me  own  eyes  in  Paris,  a  army  band  all  mounted  an' 
a-ridin'  an'  a-playin'  like  good  fellies?' 

"  'But,  gineral,'  says  the  adjutant,  'them  there  bands- 
men of  ours,  bein'  enlisted  solely  for  musicians,  not  wan 
of  them  knows  anything  about  ridin',  an'  as  for  ridin'  an' 
a-playin'  at  the  same  time,  on  top  of  them  there  horses  of 
ours,  sure  every  wan  of  them  will  git  thrown  off  an'  hurted.' 

"  'So  much  the  worse  for  them,'  snorted  the  gineral, 
'let  them  learn  to  ride — that's  what  they've  got  horses  for. 
This  is  no  bunch  of  doughboys  I'm  commandin',  'tis  a  regi- 
ment of  cavalry-men,  and  cavalry-men  we'll  make  of  them 
or  kill  them  a-tryinV 

"  'Sure,'  he  ses,  ses  he  'didn't  Ouster's  band  use  to  play 
mounted,  an'  why  can't  my  band  do  the  same?' 

"The  adjutant  he  tried  to  argufy  wid  the  old  man, 
tellin'  him  them  there  furrin'  mounts  were  jist  like  a  bunch 
of  old  dray  hosses,  an'  edicated  like  trained  pigs.  But 
nothih'  would  suit  the  gineral  but  a  mounted  dress  parade 
for  all  hands,  includin'  the  band. 

"So  the  adjutant  he  calls  to  me  an  he  ses,  'Orderly,'  ses 
he,  'my  compliments  to  Mr.  Schwartz,  the  band  leader,  an' 
ask  him  to  report  to  the  office  immediately." 

"Now  Schwartz,  he  was  a  little  old  fat  Dutchman,  about 
five  feet  six,  an'  weighin'  over  two  hundred  pounds.  When 
I  gave  him  me  message  he  ses,  ses  he, 


An  Arizona  Etude  89 

"  'What's  up,'  ses  he. 

"  'Mounted  dress  parade  for  the  band,'  ses  I. 

"  'Mein  Gott,  me  for  sick  report,'  ses  he. 

"  'Mr.  Schwartz,'  ses  the  adjutant  when  he  waddles  up 
to  the  office,  "tis  the  orders  of  the  commanding  officer  that 
the  band  attend  dress  parade  next  Sunday  afternoon, 
mounted  an'  wid  their  instruments  ready  to  play.' 

"Schwartz  he  gasps  an'  tried  hard  to  say  a  word,  but 
the  adjutant  he  ses,  ses  he :  'Git  your  men  out  an'  drill  them 
every  day  till  they  can  handle  their  hosses  an'  instruments 
at  the  same  time.  An'  mind  ye,'  ses  he,  'them  there  band 
instruments  costs  money,  an'  we  want  none  of  thim  unnec- 
sarily  injured.' 

"Schwartz  he  mumbled  somethin'  as  he  went  out  about 
them  bein'  a  sight  more  anxious  over  not  injurin'  the  instru- 
ments than  they  were  the  men,  men  bein'  a  matter  for  the 
recruitin'  service,  while  instruments  must  be  paid  for  out  of 
the  regimental  funds. 

"For  the  next  four  or  five  days  the  bandsmen  was 
mighty  busy  a-drillin'  their  hosses  an'  a-gettin'  them  usened 
to  the  sound  of  the  instruments  by  standin'  on  the  ground  in 
front  of  them  an'  a-playin.' 

''Comes  Saturday,  the  word  goes  about  the  post,  that 
the  band  would  make  the  first  try  at  playin'  on  the  backs  of 
their  hosses  that  afternoon. 

"When  they  led  their  steeds  out  of  the  corral  an'  formed 
on  the  cavalry  prade  ground,  every  soul  in  the  post, 
officers,  sogers,  apache  in j ins,  dog  robbers  an'  laundresses 
was  there  to  see  the  doin's. 

"They  led  them  bronks  out  an'  played    one    chune, 


90          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

a-standin'  at  their  heads,  an'  barrin'  a  few  of  them  what 
pulled  back  an'  got  loose  from  the  men,  they  stood  the 
racket  all  right. 

"Then  the  drum  major,  a-ridin'  a  white  hoss,  trots  out 
to  the  front  of  them,  waves  his  baton,  an'  gives  the  com- 
mand, 'Prepare  to  mount.' 

"Ivery  man,  accordin'  to  the  latest  tactics,  grabs  a 
handful  of  mane,  in  his  left  hand,  an'  his  reins  an'  the  saddle 
pommel  wid  his  right,  his  instruments  a-hangin'  to  his 
anatemy  by  straps  or  slings. 

"When  they  gits  the  word  'mount,'  they  all  swings  up 
into  their  saddles  somehow,  some  of  them  fat  old  musicians 
clamberin'  up  more  like  loadin'  a  sack  of  bran  than  any- 
thing else  in  all  the  world. 

"The  chap  what  played  the  bass  drum,  he  bowed  up 
when  it  come  to  try  in'  to  use  his  big  drum,  an'  so  they  com- 
promised on  a  pair  of  kittle  drums,  wan  strapped  to  each 
side  of  the  saddle  horn. 

"Them  kittle  drums  looked  for  all  the  world  like  a  pair 
of  twenty-gallon  water  kaigs  on  a  pack  saddle. 

"The  horse,  he  eyed  the  load  on  his  back  sort  of  sus- 
picious-like,  an'  lets  the  drummer  git  settled  down  into  his 
saddle  wid  a  drumstick  in  each  wan  of  his  two  hands,  but 
keepin'  his  ears  a-workin'  like  a  couple  of  wig-wag  signal 
flags. 

"Finally,  when  every  wan  was  safely  on  top,  an'  the 
horses  standin'  fairly  quiet,  the  drum  major  he  waves  his 
stick,  an'  wid  a  sweep  of  his  arms,  gives  the  signal  to  play. 

"An'  right  there  the  fun  began.  The  first  rap  the 
drummer  give  wid  his  drumsticks  was  too  much  for  his 


An  Arizona  Etude  91 

horse,  an'  wid  wan  wild  look  at  them  two  great  soup  kit- 
tles a-hangin'  onto  his  back,  an'  wid  the  roar  of  them  in  his 
ears,  he  jist  hung  his  head  down,  an'  began  some  of  the 
scientifickest  buckin'  an'  pitchin'  you  ever  seen. 

"Bustin'  through  the  band,  wid  them  two  kittles 
a-wavin'  an'  a-thumpin'  on  his  back,  the  drummer's  horse 
had  little  trouble  in  incitin'  several  more  of  them  to  the 
same  line  of  conduct,  an'  in  about  two  minutes  half  the 
horses  in  the  outfit  were  a-buckin'  an'  a-cavortin'  around 
like  very  divils. 

"The  kittle  drummer  an'  the  Swiss  gent,  what  played  the 
tubey — an'  him  a-settin'  there  in  the  middle  of  them  great 
silvery  coils  like  some  prehistoric  monster — they  went 
through  that  bunch  of  wild-eyed  Dutch  musicians,  like  two 
shooting  stars. 

"The  drummer  tried  hard  to  stay  on  top  of  his  load, 
but  what  wid  them  two  great  copper  tubs  a-knockin'  an' 
a-thumpin'  away  on  his  horse's  withers,  a-barkin'  his  shins 
an'  knees  wid  every  jump,  an'  a-floppin'  like  two  big  buz- 
zards' wings,  'twas  no  disgrace  that  he  couldn't  stay  there, 
him  bein'  no  bronco  buster,  but  jist  a  Dutch  bandsman. 

"He  went  up  into  the  air  wid  them  two  drumsticks,  wan 
in  each  hand,  describin'  a  lovely  circle,  an'  a  comin'  down 
head  first  in  the  soft  dirt,  while  the  hoss  wid  them  two 
drums,  beatin'  a  very  divil's  tattoo  on  his  ribs,  tored  off 
down  the  road  an'  out  of  sight. 

"As  for  the  tubey  player,  he  tried  hard  to  stay  in  the 
middle  of  his  bucker.  But,  bein'  handicapped  as  it  were, 
wid  some  thirty  odd  feet  of  German  silver  tubin'  wrapped 
about  his  anatemy,  an'  it  a-bumpin'  an'  a-bangin'  agin  his 


92          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

head  every  time  the  hoss  struck  the  sod,  he  made  hard  work 
of  it. 

"After  makin'  some  desperate  efforts  to  find  somethin' 
solid  to  hold  onto,  an'  a-clawin'  all  the  leather  offen  his  sad- 
dle pommel  in  the  effort,  the  wind  jammer  gives  it  up  for 
a  bad  job,  turned  all  holds  loose,  an'  went  up  into  the  air 
like  a  musical  sky  rocket.  The  saddler  sergint  of  G-troop 
sed  he  was  a  Dutch  meteor. 

"Ony  how,  he  went  up,  an',  encircled  wid  them  great 
silvery  pipes,  made  a  fine  landin'  in  the  soft  dirt,  drivin' 
the  bell  of  his  tubey  deep  into  it. 

"The  next  minute  his  hoss  was  a-folerin'  the  kittle 
drums  like  Tarn  O'Shanter's  ghost. 

"Then  there  was  a  tall  hungry  Irishman — though  what 
a  dacent  Irisher  was  a-doin'  in  that  bunch  of  Dutchies  I 
dunno — but  there  he  was.  He  played  a  clarinet  about  a 
yard  long,  an'  when  his  hoss  decided  'twas  time  for  him  to 
do  a  little  stunt  of  his  own,  in  the  buckin'  line,  he  made  a 
wild  grab  for  his  reins.  But  'twas  no  good.  Ivery  time  he 
comes  down,  he  jabbed  the  sharp  pint  of  that  clarinet 
mouthpiece  into  the  horse's  withers,  which  didn't  help  mat- 
ters a  little  bit. 

"He  was  a-doin'  some  elegant  reachin'  for  something  to 
hold  onto,  but  some  way  he  couldn't  connect  wid  anything 
at  all.  Wan  jump  an'  he  lost  his  cap,  the  next  he  landed 
behind  the  saddle,  which  gives  his  horse  an  opporchunity 
for  lettin'  out  a  few  extry  holes  in  his  performance.  Back 
into  the  saddle  he  goes,  but  not  findin'  conditions  there  to  his 
likin',  he  continued  on  wid  a  forward  movement  finally 
landin'  in  front  of  the  saddle,  then  a  little  furder  forward- 


An  Arizona  Etude  93 

workin'  out  on  the  horse's  neck  like  some  sailor  lad 
a-climbin'  out  on  the  bowsprit  of  a  ship. 

"Finally,  the  hoss  took  time  enough  to  lift  his  nose 
from  scrapin'  the  ground  bechune  his  two  front  feet,  an' 
have  a  look  about  him ;  in  doin'  which  he  turned  the  clarinet 
player  end  for  end  like  a  tumbler  in  a  circus.  Down  he 
comes,  wid  his  precious  clarinet  grabbed  in  his  hand  like  a 
black-thorn  shillalah,  and  when  he  lit,  he  bored  a  place  in 
the  dirt  deep  enough  for  a  post  hole. 

"Over  on  the  porch  of  the  adjutant's  office,  a-takin'  it 
all  in,  was  the  old  gineral  wid  a  bunch  of  ladies.  When  the 
last  of  the  twenty  or  more  riderless  bronks  disappeared  over 
the  brow  of  the  hill  down  the  road  toward  the  creek,  the 
old  man  turned  to  his  orderly  standin'  near  by  an'  ses,  ses 
he,  'Orderly,  prisint  me  compliments  to  the  adjutant  an' 
tell  him  that  the  band's  excused  from  attindin'  dress  parade 
mounted  till  furder  orders.'  " 


STUTTERIN'  ANDY 

,  oyez,  o-y-e-z,  the  Honorable  Court  of  the 
Third  Judicial  District  of  the  State  of  New  Mex- 
ico is  now  in  session,"  cried  the  one-armed  bailiff,  and  the 
district  court  in  Alamo  came  to  order  for  the  afternoon  ses- 
sion. 

The  judge  settled  back  in  his  easy  chair;  the  twelve 
jurymen  at  his  left  idly  watched  the  crowd  pour  into  the 
little  courtroom.  By  the  time  the  prisoner  had  been  es- 
corted in  by  the  sheriff,  every  inch  of  space  was  occupied  by 
eager  spectators,  both  men  and  women;  for  the  case  of 
Andy  Morrow,  locally  known  as  "Stutterin'  Andy," 
charged  by  the  grand  jury  with  stealing  one  red  yearling 
branded  X  V  from  Joseph  Barker,  had  attracted  the  atten- 
tion of  the  entire  community. 

During  the  morning  session,  the  prosecution  had  given 
their  side  of  the  case.  Old  man  Barker  and  a  detective  from 
Denver  had  each  testified  to  finding  the  hide  of  a  yearling 
bearing  Barker's  well-known  brand,  buried  beneath  a  pile 
of  brush  on  Morrow's  "dry  farm"  claim. 

The  resurrected  hide  was  also  placed  before  the  jury, 
the  X  V  on  the  left  ribs  being  plainly  visible  and  when  court 
adjourned  for  the  noon  recess,  Barker  was  jubilant. 

94 


Stutterin*  Andy  95 

"We'll  git  him,  we'll  git  him,"  he  said  to  his  foreman  as 
they  tramped  down  the  narrow  staircase  leading  from  the 
courtroom.  "I'll  make  a  shinin'  example  of  Mister  Stut- 
terin'  Andy,  what'll  put  the  fear  o'  God  into  a  lot  of  them 
cow  thieves,  an'  last  this  here  community  for  some  time." 

"I  reckin'  so,"  replied  the  foreman  who  felt  that  the 
reputation  of  the  X  V  outfit  was  at  stake.  After  lunch, 
court  having  been  duly  opened,  the  young  lawyer,  who 
owing  to  Morrow's  poverty,  had  been  appointed  by  the 
court  to  defend  him,  addressed  the  jury  with  a  short  state- 
ment of  the  case. 

The  poverty  of  the  prisoner,  his  struggles  to  make  a 
home,  the  iniquitous  "fence  law" which  forced  the  little  farm- 
er to  fence  his  crops  against  the  wandering  herds  of  the 
cattlemen,  the  wealth  and  standing  of  Barker,  the  complain- 
ing witness,  and  his  use  of  a  hired  detective  to  hunt  up  evi- 
dence, was  all  pictured  to  the  jury  in  his  strongest  language. 

"Say,  Barker,"  whispered  a  man  at  his'  side,  nudging 
him  with  the  point  of  his  elbow,  "don't  you  feel  sort  of 
ornery  like,  to  be  made  out  such  a  consarned  old  renegade  ?" 

"Don't  you  be  a-feelin'  sorry  for  me,"  he  snapped  back, 
"them  what  laughs  last  laughs  best,  an'  I  reckon'  we  got  a 
big  ole  laugh  a-comin'  when  this  here  performance  is  con- 
cluded." 

"I  swear,"  muttered  a  man  in  the  audience  to  his 
neighbor,  "ef  that  there  lawyer  chap  hopes  to  make  any- 
thing out  of  Andy's  testimony  that  will  help  him,  I  miss  my 
guess.  Why  the  pore  devil  stutters  so  that  nobody  kin  git 
a  word  outa  him  scarcely,  when  there's  nothin'  excitin' 
goin'  on,  let  alone  with  all  these  here  people  a-settin'  there 


96          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

a-listenin'.  I'm  a-bettin'  he  won't  be  able  to  tell  his  own 
name  to  say  nothin'  about  explainin'  how  he  didn't  kill  that 
there  yearlin V 

But  the  attorney  knew  his  business  and  Morrow  re- 
mained quietly  in  his  seat  beside  the  sheriff.  Having  finished 
his  preliminary  statement,  the  young  lawyer  whispered  to 
the  bailiff,  who  walked  across  to  a  small  jury  room  opening 
off  the  main  courtroom,  and  opened  a  door. 

A  low-spoken  word,  and  there  stepped  from  the  room  a 
woman — the  wife  of  the  prisoner. 

She  was  tall,  slim  and  about  twenty-five  years  of  age. 
From  the  corner  of  her  mouth  protruded  the  "dip-stick," 
that  ever  present  solace  of  the  sex  among  her  class,  and 
without  which  she  probably  never  could  have  faced  the 
crowd. 

A  faded  blue  calico  dress  over  which  she  wore  a  small 
shawl,  and  on  her  head  a  bedraggled  hat  with  a  few  tousled 
roses  stuck  on  one  side,  made  up  a  costume  which  only  ac- 
centuated her  drawn  face  and  sorrowful  eyes. 

After  a  few  moments  of  whispered  conversation  with 
the  lawyer,  she  took  the  witness  chair. 

At  first  her  answers  to  his  questions  as  to  her  name, 
age,  etc.,  were  given  in  a  low,  scarcely  audible  voice,  and 
the  room  was  so  still  it  was  fairly  oppressive. 

"You  understand,  do  you,"  he  asked  her,  "that  your 
husband  is  charged  with  killing  a  yearling  belonging  to  Mr. 
Barker?" 

"I  shore  do,"  was  the  reply. 

"Will  you,  please,  tell  the  jury  in  your  own  words,  just 
what  you  know  about  this  matter,"  the  lawyer  said. 


Stutterin*  Andy  97 

"Mought  I  tell  it  jist  as  I  want  to,  jist  as  I  done  tole  it 
to  you  down  to  the  hotel  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  he  replied  very  kindly,  "tell  the  jury  your  story 
just  as  you  told  it  to  me." 

She  carefully  removed  the  "dip  stick"  from  her  mouth, 
placing  it  in  a  little  wooden  box  which  she  carried  in  a  bat- 
tered leather  hand  bag.  Then,  turning  to  the  jury,  she  be- 
gan her  story  in  a  clear  firm  voice,  as  if  she  realized  that 
upon  her  testimony  hung  the  fate  of  her  husband. 

"I  want  to  tell  you-all  men,  the  truth  about  this  here 
thing,"  she  said  looking  into  their  faces  with  unflinching 
eye,  "jist  how  it  happened,  an'  don't  mean  to  hide  narry 
part  of  it  from  nobody. 

"Andy  an'  me's  been  married  now  nigh  onto  six  year. 
We  moved  into  this  country  about  a  year  ago,  comin'  from 
Arkin-saw  in  a  wagon.  We  had  two  chillen,  a  boy  an'  a  gal. 

"When  we  gits  here,  Andy  located  down  there  on  the 
claim  an'  tried  dry  f armin' ;  'kaffir  korners'  I  reckin'  some 
of  them  calls  us.  It  tuck  mighty  nigh  every  cent  we  had 
to  git  the  seed  an'  some  farmin'  tools,  an'  after  the  crap 
were  in,  Andy  he  gits  work  in  a  sawmill  up  into  the  mount- 
ings, leavin'  me  an'  the  kids  to  make  the  crap. 

"Andy  he  done  built  a  little  loghouse  an'  a  corral,  an' 
puts  a  brush  fence  around  the  land  we  broke  up  to  keep  the 
critters  out,  we  not  havin'  any  money  fer  to  buy  barbed  wire 
fer  the  fence. 

"We  had  a  heap  o'  trouble  with  the  range  stock  all 
summer  an'  it  kep'  me  a-steppin'  pretty  lively  to  keep  'em 
out,  but  I  managed  to  fight  'em  off,  an'  we  done  pretty  well 
that  year. 


98          Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

"Andy  worked  all  winter  in  the  sawmill  and  jist  about 
spring  the  man  closed  down,  an'  tole  the  boys  a-workin'  fer 
him  that  he  couldn't  pay  'em  anything  he  was  a-owin'  'em. 
Most  of  'em  he  owed  a  right  smart  to,  because  he  kep' 
a-promisin'  he'd  pay  every  month,  an'  when  he  done  busted 
up  he  owed  my  man  'bout  two  hundred  dollars. 

"So  Andy  he  come  home  to  put  in  the  crap,  an'  we 
both  worked  powerful  hard  to  git  it  in,  an'  as  we  owed  the 
store  up  thar  so  much,  we  couldn't  git  anything  more  on  our 
account. 

"So,  'bout  all  we  had  to  eat  was  taters  what  we  raised 
the  year  before.  Then  the  little  gal  took  sick,  an*  we 
nussed  her  fer  a  time  till  she  got  powerful  weak,  an'  then 
Andy  he  goes  to  town  fer  a  doctor,  tellin'  him  we  ain't  got  no 
money  to  pay  him,  but  fer  God's  sake  to  come  an'  see  her. 

"'Twas  twenty-five  miles  fer  the  doctor  to  ride,  but  he 
come  along  with  Andy  all  right,  an'  when  he  sees  the  little 
gal  he  ses,  'Scarlet  fever,  an'  a  bad  case  too.' 

"The  doctor  done  give  her  some  medicine  he  brung  with 
him,  an'  said  she'd  orter  be  carried  to  town  where  he  could 
see  her,  kase  he  couldn't  come  out  that  way  very  often, 
even  if  we  done  paid  him  fer  it. 

"So  me  an'  Andy  hooked  up  the  hosses  an'  brung  her 
in  here,  an'  bein'  as  it  was  what  the  doc  calls  a  contagious 
disease,  we  couldn't  git  no  house  to  live  in ;  so  we  had  to 
camp  down  below  town  in  the  creek  bottom  under  a  big  cot- 
tonwood.  'Twere  powerful  hard  to  take  keer  of  the  little 
gal  there,  an'  Andy  had  hard  work  gittin'  grub  an'  med- 
icine, an'  'cept  fer  Frank  Walton,  the  man  what  keeps  the 
'Bucket  of  Blood'  saloon,  we'd  never  a-pulled  her  through. 


Stutterin  Andy  99 

"Frank  he  sends  down  a  lot  of  stuff  fer  us  an'  tells  Andy 
to  git  all  the  medicine  he  needed  at  the  drug  store  an'  he'd 
pay  fer  it  hisself . 

"Bimeby,  the  little  gal  gits  better,  an'  Andy  he  bein' 
anxious  to  git  back  an'  look  after  the  crap,  we  packs  our 
traps  an'  goes  back  to  the  ranch. 

"The  doc  he  ses  the  little  gal's  all  rite  if  we  git  her  plen- 
ty good  strengthnin'  stuff,  an'  Frank  he  gits  us  consider- 
able to  take  home. 

"When  we  left  the  place  we  done  turned  the  ole  milk 
cow  out  on  the  range  till  we  comes  back.  Andy  he  rode  three 
days  a-lookin'  fer  her  an'  finally  meets  up  with  her  where 
she  lays  daid  in  a  little  medder  up  on  the  mounting.  Andy 
ses  he  reckoned  she  was  pizened  eatin'  wild  pasnip.  She 
had  a  big  long-eared  calf  along  with  her,  but  'twan't  no- 
where about,  an',  as  the  round-up  passed  that-away  a  few 
days  afore,  Andy  he  'lowed  they  done  picked  it  up  fer  a 
dogie  an'  put  ole  man  Barker's  brand  on  it. 

"Andy  he  couldn't  git  no  work,  fer  he  couldn't  leave 
me  alone  with  the  two  chillen,  an'  we  tried  to  save  the 
little  handful  of  grub  we  brung  out  fer  the  gal,  an'  lived 
mighty  nigh  on  straight  taters  an'  water.  One  day,  the 
little  boy  he  come  sick  too  an'  Andy  he  gits  on  a  hoss  an' 
rides  to  town  to  see  the  doctor  agin'. 

"The  doctor  he  ses  he  reckined  'twas  scarlet  fever  too, 
'cause  the  simptons  was  about  the  same  an'  he  give  him  some 
medicine  to  take  out  an'  sed  he'd  come  out  hisself  soon  as 
he  could,  but  he  had  a  lot  of  sick  folks  to  look  after,  an' 
didn't  like  to  leave  'em  to  make  the  trip,  he  bein'  a  lunger 
hisself,  an'  not  fitten  to  work  very  hard. 


100        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

"Somehow  the  little  feller  didn't  seem  to  do  very  well, 
an'  Andy  he  goes  in  after  the  doctor  agin',  an'  he  come  out 
to  see  him.  He  looks  mighty  serous  when  he  gits  thar  an'  he 
sed :  'I  reckin'  this  little  chap's  mighty  porely ;  what  be  ye 
a-f eedin'  him  ?'  Andy  he  busted  out  a-cryin'  an'  ses ;  'Doc,' 
ses  he,  'we  ain't  got  nothin'  but  taters  an'  a  little  hawg  meat 
what  Frank  Walton  sent  out  when  we  brung  the  little  gal 
back,  an'  we  been  a-savin'  that  fer  her,  not  thinkin'  that  the 
boy  was  gittin'  sick  too.' 

"  'Ain't  ye  got  no  cow,'  ses  the  doc,  an'  Andy  tole  him 
how  she  done  died  while  we  was  all  in  town  before. 

"The  doc  he  ses  fer  Andy  to  git  ready  an'  come  on  to 
town  with  him  that  night,  an'  he'd  git  him  some  more  grub, 
an'  so  'bout  a  hour  afore  sun  Andy  an'  the  doc  sets  off  fer 
town  leavin'  me  with  the  two  chillen." 

The  courtroom  was  so  still  excepting  for  the  low,  spirit- 
less voice  of  the  woman,  that  one  could  hear  the  muffled  sobs 
of  one  or  two  of  the  women  in  the  room  whose  hearts  were 
touched  with  the  sorrowful  story  she  was  unfolding. 

She  stopped  for  a  moment  to  choke  back  her  own  tears, 
and  the  attorney,  leaning  towards  her  as  she  faced  the  jury, 
said  almost  in  a  whisper,  "What  happened  that  night?" 

"The  pore  little  feller  died  in  my  arms  jist  about  a  hour 
before  sun  up  next  mornin',"  she  replied  without  a  quaver 
in  her  voice,  but  with  both  hands  clinched  in  an  agony  which 
could  find  no  tongue  in  her  disheartened,  hopeless  condition 
of  mind. 

"Please  continue,  if  you  can,"  said  the  lawyer  kindly, 
knowing  that  in  her  homely  recital  of  their  grief  and  mis- 
fortunes lay  the  open  road  to  her  husband's  acquittal. 


Stutterin*  Andy  101 

"Well,  that  mornin'  Andy  he  come  home  with  the  grub, 
but  'twas  too  late  fer  the  boy. 

"He  was  shore  all  broke  up  over  it  an'  sat  all  day  long 
without  sayin'  a  word  'ceptin'  he  guessed  the  Lord  'sort  of 
had  it  in  fer  us  pore  folks  an'  only  looked  after  the  rich 
ones  like  ole  man  Barker  an'  his  kind. 

"  'Twas  fifteen  miles  to  the  nearest  neighbors,  an'  any- 
how they  was  all  a-skeered  of  the  fever,  they  havin'  a  lot 
of  kids  of  their  own,  so  me  an'  Andy  we  reckoned  the  best 
thing  we  could  do  was  to  bury  him  rite  in  our  field  whar  we 
could  take  keer  of  his  little  grave. 

"  'Bout  this  time,  the  range  stock  began  to  bother  us 
a-gittin'  in  the  field  an'  a-damagin'  the*  crap.  Andy  he  sent 
word  to  Barker  to  send  some  of  his  men  down  thar  an' 
carry  off  the  worst  ones,  but  the  foreman  he  said  'twan't 
none  of  his  business,  thar  was  a  fence  law  in  this  here  state, 
an'  we  must  fence  our  land  ef  we  wanted  to  raise  a  crap. 

"Then  the  grub  what  we  brung  down  from  town  done 
give  out  an'  the  little  gal  she  sort  of  seemed  to  be  a  pinin' 
away  right  afore  our  eyes. 

"One  evenin'  some  of  the  cattle  broke  into  the  field 
agin',  an'  Andy  was  a-drivin'  'em  out,  a  yearlin'  calf  breaks 
back  an'  dodged  into  the  little  pole  corral  we  done  made  fer 
a  milk  pen. 

"Andy  he  vowed  he'd  put  a  'yoke'  onto  him,  he  bein' 
the  wust  one  of  em  all  for  breakin'  through  the  fence ;  so  he 
puts  up  the  bars  intendin'  to  fix  him  as  soon  as  we  got  the 
rest  out. 

"Bimeby,  we  goes  to  the  corral  meanin'  to  fix  him  with 
a  yoke  an'  turn  him  out,  but  when  I  seed  that  there  brand 


102        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

of  Barker's  onto  him,  an'  we  ain't  nothin'  to  eat  but  taters, 
an'  Barker's  stock  a-ruinin'  our  crap  faster  than  it  could 
grow;  I  just  got  that  bitter  I  didn't  much  care  what  did 
happen. 

"Andy  he  sets  down  the  axe  he  done  brung  out  to  the 
corral  to  make  the  yoke  with,  an'  goes  into  the  cabin  fer  a 
piece  of  balin'  wire  to  tie  the  yoke  on  with,  an'  while  he's 
gone  all  the  bad  in  me  come  to  the  top,  an'  I  drives  the 
yearlin'  into  the  little  calf  pen  where  we  shuts  up  the  milk 
calves,  an'  taken  the  axe  an'  hit  him  a  lick  on  the  haid  with  it 
as  he  made  a  sort  of  pass  at  me,  which  brung  him  to  the 
ground. 

"When  Andy  come  back  with  the  balin'  wire,  the  calf 
was  daid.  He  were  terribly  cut  up  about  it  but  I  ses,  'We 
can't  be  much  wuss  off,  an'  I'm  that  hongry  fer  somethin' 
besides  taters,  that  I  don't  care  what  happens  to  us.' 

"As  fer  the  rest  of  it,  I  reckin  what  the  detective  feller 
said  is  about  right.  We  done  butchered  the  calf  the  best 
we  could,  an'  buried  the  hide  what  was  found,  an'  so  I 
reckin  you  all  men  knows  now  jist  who  killed  that  thar 
yearling  of  Barker's,  fer  'twere  me  what  did  it  an'  not  Andy 
Morrow  a-tall." 

Her  voice  was  raised  as  she  spoke  the  last  few  words, 
and  she  threw  her  head  back,  and  swept  a  look  of  defiance 
around  the  courtroom. 

Directly  before  her  sat  old  man  Barker,  his  eyes  star- 
ing straight  into  hers,  his  great  hairy  hands  gripping  a  red 
bandana  until  the  cords  and  veins  stood  out  like  ropes, 
while  down  his  face  the  tears  were  making  their  way  through 
the  rough  stubbly  beard  that  covered  it  without  any  effort 


Stutterin3  Andy  103 

on  his  part  to  stay  their  course.  Barker  moved  uneasily 
in  his  chair;  in  the  tense  stillness  of  the  room  its  creaking 
smote  the  silence  like  a  shot  and  drew  every  eye  in  the  room 
to  him.  He  grasped  the  back  of  the  chair  in  front  of  him, 
struggled  partly  to  his  feet,  and  then  sank  back  again. 
His  mouth  opened;  he  licked  his  parched  lips  like  some 
hunted  wild  animal. 

"The,  the — gal,"  he  gasped,  never  taking  his  eyes  from 
the  woman's  face,  "the  little  gal,  wh — what  come  of  her?" 
he  demanded  hoarsely,  a  great  something  in  his  throat 
almost  choking  him,  "did-did-sh-he,"  and  his  voice  failed 
him  completely. 

The  woman  smiled  scornfully.  "She  did  not,"  she  said, 
realizing  the  drift  of  his  unspoken  question,  "we  done  made 
a  pot  of  soup  out  of  some  of  that  there  yearlin'  an'  fed 
her  some  of  the  meat,  an'  she  perked  up  an'  come  through 
all  right."  Then — daughter  of  Eve  that  she  was — she 
broke  down  and  burst  into  tears. 

Over  the  face  of  the  old  cattleman  swept  a  look  of  joy 
and  relief  that  words  cannot  portray.  He  mopped  his 
flushed  face  and  streaming  eyes  with  the  handkerchief, 
utterly  unconscious  that  every  eye  in  the  courtroom  was 
upon  him,  then,  turning,  brought  his  great  hand  down  up- 
on the  back  of  his  foreman  beside  him  with  force  enough 
to  have  almost  broken  it.  His  face  was  wreathed  in  smiles. 
"Glory  be,"  he  almost  shouted,  "glory  be — thank  God 

for  that." 

*     *     *     * 

Five  minutes  later  Stutterin'  Andy  walked  out  of  the 
courtroom  a  free  man. 


THE  PASSING  OF  BILL  JACKSON*' 
"•w  TELL  you  fellows,  'tain't  no  fun  to  swim  a  bunch 


I 


of  steers  when  the  water  is  as  cold  as  it  is  now." 
The  speaker  was  a  short,  thick-set  cowboy,  whose  fiery 
red  hair  had  gained  for  him  the  sobriquet  of  "Colorado," 
the  Mexican  name  for  red,  which  was  frequently  shortened 
to  "Colly"  among  the  "punchers." 

Colorado,  who  was  carefully  rolling  a  cigarette,  glanced 
around  the  circle  of  listeners,  as  if  challenging  some  one  to 
contradict  him.    The  balance  of  the  boys  evidently  agreed 
with  him,  for  no  one  said  a  word  except  the  "Kid,"  and  he, 
after  taking  his  pipe  from  his  lips  and  carefully  knocking 
out  the  ashes  on  the  heel  of  his  boot,  said: 
" '  Jever  have  any  'sperience  at  it,  Colly  ?" 
Colorado  by  this  time  had  finished  rolling  his  cigarette 
and  was  waiting  for  the  cook's  pot-hook,  which  he  had 
thrust  into  the  campfire,  to  get  red-hot,  to  light  it.    Having 
done  this  and  taken  a  few  preliminary  puffs,  he  answered : 
"Yes,  I  hev,  and  a  mighty  tough  one  it  was,  too." 
"Tell  us  about  it,  Colorado,"  said  the  cook.     "Whar 
was  it,  an'  how  did  it  happen?" 

"Yes,  Colly,  le's  hear  the  story,"  chimed  in  the  Kid. 

*By  permission  The  Argonaut,  San  Francisco,  Cal. 

104 


The  Passing  of  Bill  Jackson  105 

It  was  just  the  time  for  a  story.  We  had  come  down  to 
the  railroad  with  a  bunch  of  steers,  and  found  the  Little 
Colorado  River,  which  ran  between  us  and  the  railroad, 
swollen  to  a  mighty  torrent  by  the  rains  in  the  mountains. 

We  had  waited  four  days  for  it  to  go  down,  but  it 
seemed  rather  to  rise  a  little  each  day.  As  the  feed  was 
poor  and  we  had  lots  of  work  to  do,  the  boss  was  in  a  hurry 
to  get  them  shipped  and  off  his  hands,  and  so  had  just 
announced,  that  at  daylight  the  next  morning  he  meant 
to  try  to  swim  the  herd  across.  It  was  late  in  October 
and  the  weather  was  snappy  cold.  Overcoats  and  heavy 
clothes  were  an  absolute  necessity  in  the  night  on  guard 
around  the  herd,  and  the  idea  of  going  into  that  cold  water 
was  not  a  pleasant  one.  But  the  cow-puncher  is  much  like 
the  sailor,  in  that  he  never  stops  to  think  of  getting  wet, 
or  cold,  or  going  into  any  danger  as  long  as  the  boss  him- 
self will  lead  the  way;  so  we  were  all  prepared  to  get  a 
soaking  the  next  day. 

It  was  that  pleasant  time  in  the  evening  between  sunset 
and  dark.  The  herd  was  bedded  down  near  camp,  and 
the  first  guard  were  making  their  rounds,  with  never  a 
steer  to  turn  back.  The  balance  of  us  were  lying  about  the 
campfire,  smoking  and  talking  "hoss,"  a  subject  which  is 
never  worn  threadbare  in  a  cow-camp.  Colorado,  who 
had  been  idly  marking  out  brands  in  the  sand  in  front  of 
him  with  the  end  of  his  fingers,  said: 

"Well,  boys,  'taint  much  of  a  story,  but  ef  you  want  to 
hear  it,  I'll  tell  you  how  it  was.  Dick,  gimme  a  bite  of 
your  navy,"  and  having  stowed  away  a  huge  chunk  of 
Dick's  "navy,"  Colly  settled  back  on  the  ground  and  began : 


106        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

"I  was  workin'  fer  the  Diamond  outfit  up  in  Utah,  'bout 
three  years  ago,  an'  the  old  man  he  come  off  down  here 
into  Arizona  an'  bought  a  bunch  of  steers  to  take  up  thar. 
He  done  written  his  wagon-boss  to  come  down  with  an  out- 
fit big  enough  to  handle  two  thousand  head,  an'  we  struck 
the  Little  Colorado  River  'bout  the  mouth  of  the  Canon 
Diablo  wash,  where  we  was  to  receive  the  herd  'long  in 
June.  We  didn'  have  no  partickler  hap'nin's  comin'  down, 
and  we  got  the  herd  turned  over  all  right,  an'  built  a 
'squeeze  chute'  an'  branded  'em  all  before  we  started  back ; 
so  as,  if  any  got  lost,  the  outfit  could  claim  'em  on  the 
brand:  an'  about  the  last  of  June  we  pushed  'em  off  the 
bed-ground  one  mornin',  before  daylight,  an'  pulled  our 
freight  for  the  home  ranch. 

"The  cattle  were  all  good  to  handle,  an*  didn't  give 
us  no  trouble  to  hold  nights,  barrin'  one  or  two  little 
stampedes,  an'  we  drifted  on  down  toward  Lee's  Ferry 
without  any  mishaps,  'ceptin'  one  night  it  were  a-rainin' 
like  all  possessed,  an'  I  wakes  up  a  feller  named  Peck  to 
go  on  guard.  Peck  got  up  an'  put  on  his  slicker,  walked 
over  to  where  his  pony  was  tied,  an'  mounted.  We  was 
camped  on  the  banks  of  a  wash  called  Cottonwood  Creek, 
an'  along  there  the  wash  had  cut  down  into  the  'dobe  flat, 
some  ten  or  fifteen  feet  deep.  Peck  he's  'bout  half  asleep, 
an'  gets  off  wrong  for  the  herd,  an'  rides  straight  up  to  the 
edge  of  the  creek,  thinkin'  all  the  time  he's  a-goin'  out  on 
the  prairie  to  the  herd.  His  pony  sort  of  balked  on  him 
an'  give  a  snort,  but  Peck  bein'  a  cross-grained  sort  of  cuss, 
an'  only  half  awake,  just  bathed  him  with  his  quirt,  an' 
jabbed  his  spurs  into  him.  The  pony  give  a  jump  an' 


The  Passing  of  Bill  Jackson  107 

landed  in  the  middle  of  the  creek,  with  six  or  eight  feet  of 
muddy  water  runnin'  in  it.  Lord,  didn't  Peck  wake  up 
suddenlike,  an'  squall  for  help?  We  all  turned  out  in  a 
hurry,  but  he  swam  across,  an'  the  opposite  side  bein'  sort 
of  slopin'like,  the  pony  scrambled  out.  Then  Peck  was 
afeered  to  cross  back  in  the  dark,  an'  stayed  over  thar  all 
night,  a-shiverin'  an'  a-shakin'  an'  a-cursin'  like  a  crazy 
man.  When  we  got  up  for  breakfast  that  mornin'  at  four 
o'clock  it  was  clear,  an'  cold,  an'  dark.  The  cook  he  goes 
down  to  the  creek  an'  hollers  to  Peck  sort  of  sarcastic-like, 
'Come  to  breakfast,  Peck !'  an'  Peck  he  gets  mad  an'  swears 
at  the  cocmero  pretty  plenty,  an'  said  ef  he  didn't  go  back 
he'd  turn  loose  on  him  with  his  six-shooter,  an'  the  cook, 
bein'  pretty  rollicky  hisself,  he  goes  back  to  the  wagon  an' 
pulls  his  Winchester  an'  starts  fer  the  creek  agin,  but 
Jackson  stops  him  an'  turns  him  back.  When  it  comes 
daylight  Peck  went  down  the  creek  a  mile  and  finds  a  place 
to  cross  whar  it  wa'n't  so  deep,  an'  so  gits  back  to  camp 
jist  as  we  was  pullin'  out. 

"The  Big  Colorado  were  a  powerful  stream  when  we 
reached  it,  bein'  all  swollen  by  heavy  rains  up  in  the  moun- 
tains an'  we  all  kinder  hated  to  tackle  it.  Before  he  left, 
the  old  man  told  the  wagon-boss  to  ferry  the  outfit  an' 
horses  over  in  the  boat,  but  to  swim  the  steers. 

"You  know  how  Lee's  Ferry  is ;  the  river  comes  out  of 
a  box  canon  above,  an'  the  sides  break  away  a  little,  an' 
then  a  mile  below  it  goes  into  the  box  agin,  where  the  walls 
is  three  thousand  feet  high  an'  the  current  runs  like  a  mill- 
race. 

"It  was  shore  a  nasty  place  to  swim  a  bunch  of  steers, 


108        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

an'  Jackson,  he  knowed  we  had  a  big  job  on  hand  when 
we  got  there.  Jackson  was  the  best  wagon-boss  I  ever  see 
or  worked  under.  He  was  a  tall,  slim  chap,  could  outwork 
any  two  men  in  the  outfit,  wasn't  afeerd  of  nothin',  an' 
though  he  couldn't  read  or  write,  I  tell  you,  boys,  he  savvyed 
cows  a  heap.  What  he  didn't  know  'bout  cows  wa'n't 
worth  knowin'.  He  didn't  let  the  steers  water  the  day  be- 
fore, so's  they'd  be  powerful  dry  an'  take  to  the  river  easier. 

"We  fust  got  the  wagon  over  on  the  ferry  boat,  which 
was  a  big  concern,  long  enuff  to  drive  a  four-hoss  team 
onto,  an'  which  was  rowed  by  four  men.  The  cook  he  was 
mighty  skerry  'bout  goin'  onto  this  here  boat,  'cause  he  said 
'bout  a  year  afore  that  he'd  been  a-punching  cows  in 
southern  Arizony,  an'  a  feller  there  shipped  a  lot  of  cattle 
up  inter  Californey  to  put  on  an  island  in  the  ocean  near 
Los  Angeles.  They  loaded  'em  onto  flat  scows  with  a  high 
railin'  round  'em,  an'  put  'bout  fifty  head  on  each  scow  an' 
a  puncher  on  it  to  look  out  fer  'em.  Goin'  over  to  the 
island  the  tug  what  was  a-towin'  'em  by  the  horn  of  the 
saddle,  so  to  speak,  busted  the  string,  an'  thar  bein'  quite 
a  wind  blowin',  an'  big  ole  waves  a-floppin'  round,  the  four 
scows  began  to  butt  an'  bump  up  agin'  one  another  like 
a  lot  of  muley  bulls  a-fightin',  an'  the  cattle  got  to  runnin' 
back  an'  forth  an'  a-bellerin'  an'  a-bawlin',  an'  them 
punchers,  they  shore  thought  their  very  last  day  had  come. 
The  cook  he  never  expected  to  see  dry  land  agin',  an'  he 
jist  vowed  if  he  ever  got  back  to  the  prairie  that  he'd  punch 
no  more  cows  on  boats. 

"Well,  bimeby,  the  tug  got  a  new  lariat  onto  'em  agin' 
an'  corraled  'em  all  safe  enuff  at  the  wharf,  but  the  cook 


The  Passing  of  Bill  Jackson  109 

'lowed  he  war  a  dry-land  terrapin  an'  wouldn't  ever  agin 
get  into  no  such  scrape,  not  ef  he  knowed  hisself.  How- 
ever, he  did  get  up  'nuff  spunk  to  tackle  the  ferry,  an'  went 
over  safely.  After  we  got  the  wagon  acrost,  we  went  back 
an'  started  the  cattle  down  the  side  canon  what  leads  into 
the  crossin'. 

"Jackson's  idee  was  to  git  the  hosses  ahead  of  the  steers 
an'  let  'em  follow.  You  know  hosses  swim  anywheres,  an' 
the  cattle  will  allers  foller  'em.  So  he  puts  three  men  in  a 
little  boat,  two  to  row  an'  one  to  lead  a  hoss  knowin'  the 
balance  would  foller  him  right  across. 

"The  hoss-wrangler  hed  the  'cavvy'  all  ready,  an' 
jist  as  the  leaders  of  the  herd  come  down  to  the  water's 
edge  the  boys  in  the  boat  pulled  out,  a-leadin'  a  hoss,  an' 
the  other  hosses  follered  right  in  an'  was  soon  a-swimmin'. 
Then  when  they  was  all  strung  out  an'  doin'  fine,  we 
crowded  the  steers  into  the  water  after  'em.  They  was  all 
powerful  dry  an'  took  to  the  water  easy  'nuff,  an'  afore 
the  leaders  knowed  it  they  was  a-swimmin'  in  fine  shape. 
Jackson  wouldn't  let  us  holler  or  shoot  till  we  got  'em  all 
inter  the  water,  an'  then  we  jerked  our  six-shooters  an' 
began  to  fog  'em  an'  yell  like  a  bunch  of  Comanches. 

"You  all  know  thar's  one  thing  to  be  afeered  of  in 
swimmin'  a  lot  of  cattle,  and  that's  when  they  gets  to  millin'. 
Jackson  had  swum  cattle  across  the  Pecos  in  Texas,  an' 
the  Yellowstone  in  Montana,  an'  saveyed  'xactly  what  to 
do.  But  this  here  Colorado  at  Lee's  Ferry  is  a  bad  place 
to  tackle,  fer  you're  bound  to  get  out  on  the  other  side  afore 
you  get  into  the  box  canon,  or  your  name's  Dennis,  'cause 
once  a  feller  gits  into  the  canon  he's  got  to  go  on  clean 


110        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

down  about  a  hundred  miles  afore  he  can  strike  a  level 
place  big  enuff  to  crawl  out  on. 

"Soon  as  the  cattle  got  well  strung  out,  Jackson  began 
to  undress  hisself.  He  took  off  all  his  clothes  but  his  pants, 
an'  then  buckled  his  six-shooter  belt  around  him,  an'  pulled 
the  saddle  off'n  his  hoss. 

"I  says,  'Bill,  you  ain't  a-goin'  to  try  to  swim  it,  are 
you?'  an'  he  says,  'No,  not  'less  I  have  to ;  but  if  they  gets 
to  millin'  out  thar  we'll  lose  the  whole  herd,  an'  the  only 
way  to  break  it  up  is  to  ride  out  an'  shoot  among  'em  an' 
skeer  'em.'  He  knowed  it  were  risky,  for  if  anything  went 
wrong  he  was  shore  to  be  carried  into  the  canon  an' 
drowned.  But  Bill  Jackson  wa'n't  the  sort  of  a  wagon-boss 
to  stop  at  anything  to  save  the  herd,  an'  sure  'miff,  'bout 
the  time  the  leaders  got  fairly  into  the  middle  of  the  river, 
'long  comes  a  big  cottonwood  tree  a-driftin'  an'  whirlin' 
down  stream  right  into  'em.  That  skeert  'em  an'  turned 
'em,  an'  'fore  we  knowed  it  they  was  doubled  back  on  the 
balance  an'  swimmin'  round  an'  round,  for  all  the  world 
like  driftwood  in  a  big  eddy  in  a  creek.  This  was  what 
Jackson  was  afeerd  of,  an'  he  pushed  his  hoss  into  the 
river  an'  takes  his  six-shooter  in  his  hand.  He  was  ridin'  a 
little  Pinto  pony  they  called  'Blue  Jay,'  one  of  the  best  all- 
around  cow-ponies  I  ever  see. 

"Old  Blue  Jay  he  jist  seemed  to  savey  what  was  wanted 
of  him,  an'  swam  'long  without  any  fuss.  When  Jackson 
gits  out  close  to  the  millin'  steers  he  begin  to  holler  an' 
shoot,  an'  he  called  to  the  fellers  in  the  boat  to  come  back 
an'  try  to  stop  'em.  Now,  you  all  know  what  a  risky  thing 
it  is  to  go  near  a  steer  a-swimmin'  in  the  water,  for  he's 


The  Passing  of  Bill  Jackson  ill 

sure  to  try  to  climb  up  on  you.  Jackson  knowed  this,  but 
he  swam  Blue  Jay  right  slap-dab  inter  the  bunch  an*  tried 
to  scatter  'em  an'  stop  'em  from  millin'. 

"Just  how  it  happened  we  couldn't  tell ;  but  first  thing 
we  seen  Jackson  was  right  in  the  middle  of  the  millin'  crit- 
ters, an'  in  a  minute  they  had  crowded  pore  old  Blue  Jay 
under,  an'  all  we  seen  of  Jackson  was  his  hands  went  up 
an'  then  he  was  lost  in  the  whirlin'  mass  of  horns  that  was 
goin'  round  and  round.  A  man  had  no  chance  at  all  to 
swim,  'cause  their  hoofs  kep'  him  under  all  the  time,  an' 
they  was  packed  so  close  a  feller  couldn't  come  up  between 
'em,  anyway.  The  boys  in  the  boat  tried  to  do  something, 
but  'twan't  no  use,  fer  he  never  come  up,  an'  when  they 
got  too  close  one  big  steer  throwed  his  head  over  the  side 
of  the  boat  an'  purty  nigh  upset  'em,  so  they  had  to  keep 
away  to  save  theirselves.  But  they  kep'  up  a-shootin'  an' 
a-hollerin'  'till  the  leaders  finally  struck  out  for  shore,  an' 
in  a  few  minutes  the  whole  herd  was  strung  out  for  the 
opposite  side  an'  sooner  than  I  kin  tell  it  they  was  all 
standin'  on  dry  land,  an'  not  a  single  one  missin'. 

"Meantime  the  boys  in  the  boat  had  watched  every- 
where for  pore  Jackson's  body,  but  they  never  got  sight  of 
it,  though  they  went  'most  down  to  the  mouth  of  the  box 
canon.  Thar  was  lots  of  big  trees  an'  drift  a-runnin',  an' 
we  guessed  his  body  had  been  caught  in  the  branches  of  a 
tree  an'  carried  down  with  it.  Pore  old  Blue  Jay  come 
floating  past  'em,  an'  they  tried  to  catch  him,  but  the 
current  was  so  swift  they  couldn't  do  it.  All  they  wanted 
was  to  get  Jackson's  silver-mounted  bridle  off'n  him,  'cause 
'twas  easy  'miff  to  see  that  the  pony  was  quite  dead. 


112        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

"Well,  the  rest  of  us  crossed  in  the  big  ferry-boat  an' 
rounded  up  the  steers,  which  was  grazin'  up  the  canon  on 
the  other  side,  an'  moved  'em  out  a  couple  of  miles  to  camp. 
Shorty,  bein'  the  oldest  hand  in  the  outfit,  took  charge,  an' 
sent  two  of  us  back  to  the  ferry,  to  try  an'  see  ef  Jackson's 
body  could  be  found,  but  the  feller  what  runs  the  ferry 
said  'tain't  no  use  lookin'  fer  him,  'cause  the  swift  current 
would  carry  him  miles  and  miles  down  the  canon  without 
ever  lodgin'  anywhere.  So  we  went  back,  an'  Shorty  gave 
it  up  an'  decided  to  push  the  herd  on  next  day.  We  was 
a  blue  ole  crowd  that  night  around  the  campfire,  I  tell  you. 
All  the  boys  liked  Jackson,  an'  besides,  they  was  a-thinkin' 
of  his  wife  an'  two  kids  what  was  a-waitin'  for  him  at  the 
headquarter  ranch  up  in  Utah. 

"Shorty  sent  a  letter  from  the  ferry  settlement  to  the 
old  man,  a-tellin'  him  what  had  happened,  an'  we  come 
along  up  with  the  cattle,  arrivin'  safely  at  the  ranch  with- 
out any  more  misfortunes." 

"An'  didn't  they  never  find  Jackson's  body,  Colly?" 
queried  the  Kid. 

"Wai,"  said  Colly,  "that's  a  singular  thing,  too.  When 
we  gets  back  to  the  ranch  the  old  man  he  was  orful  cut  up 
about  it,  an'  hated  to  think  that  the  body  wasn't  found. 
He'd  been  down  in  the  Grand  Canon  the  summer  afore  with 
a  lot  of  fellers,  an'  he  said  he  believed  he  could  find  it  'bout 
a  hundred  miles  below  the  ferry,  'cause  thar  were  a  place 
down  thar  in  the  canon  whar  the  walls  widened  out  fer 
some  twenty  miles,  an'  thar  was  quite  a  valley  with  grassy 
meadows  an'  trees.  So  he  takes  one  of  the  boys  an'  a  pack 
outfit  an'  goes  off  down  thar.  They  had  to  leave  every- 


The  Passing  of  Bill  Jackson  113 

thing  on  top  of  the  canon  an'  climb  down  a-foot  an'  pack 
their  stuff  on  their  backs.  The  walls  was  six  thousand  feet 
high  thar,  an'  they  had  a  hard  time  gettin'  down.  Course, 
it  was  jist  a  scratch,  but  I'm  blest  if  after  four  or  five  days' 
hunt  they  didn't  find  it  lodged  in  a  pile  of  drift  along  the 
river.  'Twas  easy  'enuff  to  tell  Jackson's  body,  fer  he'd 
had  two  fingers  of  his  left  hand  shot  off  in  a  fight  once; 
so  they  takes  it  off  to  a  place  in  the  valley  whar  it  was  safe 
from  flood,  an'  buries  it  as  well  as  they  could,  an'  next 
year,  he  went  back  an'  packed  the  remains  out  of  the  canon 
an'  took  them  clean  to  the  ranch  an  buried  'em  jist  as  if  it 
was  his  own  brother.  I  tell  you,  the  boys  was  ready  to 
swear  by  old  man  Saunders  after  that." 

Colorado's  story  was  finished,  and  as  it  was  about  ten- 
thirty  the  second  guard-men  began  putting  on  overcoats 
and  heavy  gloves  preparatory  to  two  hours  and  a  half  of 
watching  the  herd. 

The  stars  were  shining  clear  and  bright,  the  bells  of 
the  horse-herd  came  softly  over  the  prairie,  making  a  tune- 
ful chime  on  the  frosty  night  air,  and  as  I  untied  the  rope 
that  bound  my  roll  of  bedding  and  kicked  it  out  on  the 
ground,  I  could  not  keep  from  thinking  of  poor  Jackson's 
death  and  wondering  if  the  morrow  held  a  like  fate  in  store 
for  any  of  us. 


THE  TENDERFOOT  FROM  YALE* 

r  1 1HE  trouble  with  this  here  forest  service  business 
JL  nowadays  is,  that  they're  sendin'  out,  from  the  effete 
and  luxurious  East,  a  lot  of  half-baked  kids,  what  never 
seen  a  mountain  in  all  their  lives,  don't  know  whether  beans 
is  picked  from  trees  or  made  in  a  factory  at  Battle  Creek, 
an'  generally  ain't  got  savvy  enough  to  find  their  way 
home  after  dark. 

"Now  here's  this  kid  we've  drawed  in  the  last  deal; 
nice  enough  boy,  I  reckon,  but  who's  goin'  to  play  nursey 
to  him  up  in  these  here  hills  ?"  The  speaker  glared  at  his 
companion  as  if  defying  him  to  meet  his  charges  against 
the  newcomer  and  his  kind. 

"But  he's  got  eddication,  Jack,"  replied  his  listener, 
"an'  that's  what  counts  in  these  days.  We  got  into  the 
service  in  them  good  old  days  when  it  was  a  case  of  ability 
to  ride  a  pitchin'  bronc,  rope  a  maverick,  chase  sheep 
herders  off  the  earth,  shoot  the  eyes  out  of  a  wildcat  at 
forty  yards  an'  all  them  things.  Nowadays  they  picks  'em 
out  by  their  brand  of  learnin'  an'  not  by  their  high-heeled 
boots." 

"Howsomever,"  he  continued,  "there's  some  of  them 
*By  permission  American  Forestry  Magazine. 

114 


'We  had  a  fire  lookout  station  on  top  of  a  high  peak" 


The  Tenderfoot  from  Yale  115 

that  makes  good  in  spite  of  their  eddicational  handicap. 
Over  on  the  Sierra  last  fall  we  was  all  a-settin'  in  camp  one 
Sunday  afternoon  when  the  phone  rings  like  they  was  try- 
ing to  wake  the  dead  with  it.  The  old  man  gits  up  to 
answer  it.  When  he  says,  sort  of  startled-like,  'Fire, 
where?'  we  all  pricks  up  our  ears.  'Twas  a  mighty  dry 
time  an'  every  one  was  a-prayin'  for  rain,  for  we'd  been 
fightin'  fire  for  the  last  month  and  was  all  in. 

"We  had  a  fire  lookout  station  up  on  top  of  a  high  peak 
an'  a  man,  with-  the  best  glasses  money  could  buy,  a-sittin' 
there  who  could  see  all  over  the  range  for  fifty  miles. 

"Say,  people  got  so  they  was  afraid  to  make  a  camp- 
fire  anywheres  in  them  hills,  an'  the  rangers  swore  they  had 
to  go  behind  a  tree  to  light  their  pipes,  lest  he'd  see  the 
smoke  an'  send  in  a  fire  call. 

"  'Shut-eye,'  said  the  old  man,  meaning  the  lookout, 
'Shut-eye  says  there's  a  big  smoke  a-comin'  out  of  the 
canon  below  Gold  Gulch  to  the  left  of  Greyback  Peak,  an' 
I  reckon  we'd  better  be  a-movin'  that  way.' 

"It  didn't  take  us  long  to  saddle  up,  slap  a  pack  onto 
a  couple  of  mules,  an'  hit  the  trail.  'Twas  a  good  ten-mile 
over  a  rough  country,  an'  it  was  mighty  nigh  dark  afore 
we  gets  to  where  we  could  see  smoke  a-boiling  out  of  the 
canon  over  a.  ridge  ahead  of  us. 

"We  was  all  old-timers  at  the  work,  'ceptin'  a  young 
feller  fresh  from  the  Yale  Forestry  School,  what  had  come 
out  for  a  sort  of  post-graduate  course  in  forestry,  an' 
some  of  them  boys  was  seein'  to  it  he  got  it  all  right. 

"He  had  all  the  fixin's  them  fellers  bring  along  with 
them,  fancy  ridin'  panties,  a  muley  saddle,  a  wind  bed  an' 


116        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

a  automatic  six-pistol,  one  of  them  things  what,  after  she 
once  gits  to  shootin',  you  jist  got  to  throw  her  into  the 
creek  to  stop  her  goin'. 

"  'Bout  two  miles  from  the  ridge  where  we  reckoned 
we'd  git  our  first  view  of  the  fire  we  meets  up  with  Hank 
Strong  an'  his  wife.  You  know,  Hank's  woman  is  just 
about  as  crazy  to  go  to  a  fire  as  a  boy  to  the  circus,  an' 
she  always  comes  in  mighty  handy  to  start  a  camp,  take 
care  of  the  boys'  horses  an'  the  packs  while  we're  a-workin'. 

"Generally  she'd  make  up  a  big  pot  of  coffee  and  fetch 
it  out  to  the  line.  Once  she  comes  a-ridin'  along  carry  in' 
a  pot  full  an'  a  bear  skeered  her  hoss — but  that's  nothin' 
to  do  with  this  yarn. 

"Hank  says  that  there's  also  a  big  smoke  comin'  up 
from  the  vicinity  of  Granite  Basin,  an'  the  old  man  he  says 
some  one  better  go  over  there  an'  see  what's  goin'  on. 
Thar's  a  chap  named  Brown  a-livin'  in  the  Basin,  an'  the 
Super,  he's  afraid,  mebbe  so  he'd  get  caught  in  the  fire  an' 
be  singed  some,  the  Basin  bein'  in  the  allfiredest  lot  of  chap- 
paral  brush  you  ever  see. 

"This  feller  Brown,  he's  a  sort  of  pet  of  them  boys  over 
that  a-way,  him  bein'  a  lunger  an'  not  able  to  do  much 
but  draw  funny  pictures  for  the  Sunday  supplements. 
Seems  he  broke  down  back  East  an'  comes  West  to  try 
an'  git  over  it. 

"There  he  sets  a-drawin'  pictures  for  them  funny  papers 
an'  sendin'  'em  in  regular,  while  he  ses  he's  jist  a-walkin' 
around  to  beat  the  undertaker. 

"Nobody  else  is  a-livin'  in  the  basin,  there  bein'  nothin' 
but  a  little  old  cabin,  what  a  bee-man  put  up  once,  an' 


The  Tenderfoot  from  Yale  117 

a  few  hives  of  bees  Brown  bought  along  with  the  cabin. 
'Them  bees  is  jist  to  teach  me  habits  of  industry,'  ses  Brown, 
when  some  of  the  boys  asked  him  if  he  calculated  to  git  rich 
on  the  output  of  them  hives. 

"The  old  man  he  reckons  he  can't  spare  any  of  us  old 
hands  to  go  over  there,  an'  so  he  says  to  the  young  tender- 
foot: 'Son,'  he  says,  'do  you  reckon  you  can  make  it  over 
there  in  the  dark  and  find  out  what's  doin'  in  Granite  Basin 
an'  come  back  an'  let  us  know?' 

"The  boy  he  ses  he  reckoned  he  could,  only  he  didn't 
know  the  trail  all  the  way.  Then  Hank's  wife  she  speaks 
up  an'  says  she  can  go  along  as  far  as  the  top  of  the  moun- 
tain, an'  show  him  the  trail  down  into  the  basin. 

"It  sort  of  hacked  the  kid  to  have  a  woman  show  him 
the  trail,  but  the  old  man  said  it  were  the  very  idee,  an' 
so  she  an'  the  boy  struck  off,  leavin'  us  to  take  care  of  the 
fire  ahead. 

"There  wa'n't  but  one  way  into  the  basin  an'  that  was 
down  a  graded  trail  about  two  miles  long  from  top  to 
bottom  that  the  bee  man  had  made  to  git  in  and  out  on. 

"The  lower  part  of  this  basin  was  one  great  mass  of 
brush,  an'  as  thick  as  the  hair  on  a  dog's  back,  so  you 
couldn't  git  through  it  only  where  the  brush  had  been 
cut  out. 

"When  they  gits  to  the  top  an'  could  see  over  the  basin 
there  wa'n't  any  doubt  but  there  was  a  fire  all  right  an* 
it  was  mighty  plain  that  if  Brown  wa'n't  already  out  of 
there  it  was  time  he  was  startin'. 

"Hank's  wife  were  a-dyin'  to  go  down  with  him,  but  the 
kid  he  ses,  'This  here's  my  job,  please,'  and  bluffed  her  out. 


118        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

"  'You  look  out  you  don't  get  cut  off  on  the  trail,'  she 
warns  him,  'the  way  that  fire's  a-eatin'  along  the  side  of 
the  basin,  it's  a-goin'  to  reach  the  trail  inside  of  an  hour, 
an'  there  ain't  no  other  way  out  'ceptin'  a  foot  path  what 
goes  up.  the  side  of  the  basin  back  of  the  cabin,  but  it's 
more  like  a  ladder  than  a  trail  an'  you  can't  take  your  hoss 
there  a-tall.' 

"Down  into  the  basin  goes  the  boy,  while  instead  of 
goin'  back  to  the  outfit  the  woman  stopped  there  on  a  little 
point  of  rock  where  she  could  look  all  over  the  basin  an' 
waited  to  see  what'd  happen. 

"Brown  slep'  out  under  a  big  ole  oak-tree,  an'  as  he 
gits  near  the  cabin  the  kid  he  lets  out  a  yell  or  two  to 
wake  him  an'  finds  Brown  settin'  up  in  bed  sort  of  half- 
dazed,  what  with  the  yellin'  an'  onnatural  brightness  of 
the  skies  all  abouts. 

"Inside  of  five  minutes  they  was  a-ridin'  for  the  trail 
up  the  mountain  with  Brown  a-settin'  behind  on  the  kid's 
horse.  But  it  were  too  late.  When  they  reached  the  foot 
of  the  trail  they  could  see  where  'bout  half  way  up  the  whole 
blamed  mountain  was  afire.  Nothin'  could  pass  through 
it  an'  live,  so  there  wa'n't  nothin'  to  do  but  go  back  an' 
try  to  get  out  on  the  foot  trail. 

"Brown  he  begs  the  kid  to  go  an'  leave  him  an'  save 
hisself.  'I'm  only  a  worn-out  shell,  anyhow,'  he  ses,  'an' 
it's  jist  a  question  of  time  till  it's  all  over  for  me  an'  I 
cash  in,  but  you  got  something  to  live  for  ahead  of  you.' 

"But  the  kid  wouldn't  stand  for  it. 

"  'Don't  you  talk  to  me  'bout  leavin'  you  here  like  a 
rat  in  a  trap,'  ses  he,  'we'll  make  it  up  that  trail  all  right; 


The  Tenderfoot  from  Yale  119 

jist  you  hang  onto  me  and  we'll  make  the  hoss  pack  us  as 
far  as  he  can  go,  an'  then  we'll  take  it  afoot.  If  it  comes 
to  a  showdown  I  can  carry  you  easy  enough.' 

"So  they  rides  the  hoss  up  the  trail  till  where  it  runs 
into  a  cliff  'bout  twenty  feet  high.  Here  thar  was  a  ladder 
to  git  up  the  cliff,  an'  the  kid  he  strips  off  the  saddle,  takes 
his  water  bag,  an'  turns  his  hoss  to  shift  fer  hisself.  Time 
they  gits  up  that  ladder  pore  Brown  he  were  all  in  an'  had 
to  lie  down  on  the  ground  a-coughin'  fit  to  kill  hisself. 

"This  trail  was  jist  a  foot  trail  cut  through  the  chap- 
paral,  an'  the  smoke  an'  heat  was  already  a-rollin'  down 
onto  'em  where  they  was  like  a  blast  from  a  furnace.  The 
kid  he  wets  their  handkerchiefs  from  his  water  bag  an'  they 
each  tied  'em  about  their  faces  to  sort  of  protect  'em  a  little. 

"The  boy,  he  looks  mighty  anxiouslike  at  them  big  high 
walls  of  flames  a-comin'  down  toward  'em,  an'  fairly  forced 
Brown  to  git  on  his  back  'pick-a-back'  like  you'd  take  a 
little  kid,  an'  started  slowly  up  the  trail. 

"Foot  by  foot  he  climbed  to'rd  the  top.  Sometimes 
the  smoke  got  so  thick  they  had  to  lie  down  a  minute  clost 
to  the  ground  to  git  their  breath,  sometimes  the  wind 
dropped  big  blazin'  brands  onto  'em  an'  set  their  clothes 
afire,  an'  he'd  have  to  stop  an'  rub  it  out  with  his  hands. 

"Every  time  he  took  a  look  up  to'rds  the  top,  he'd 
see  the  fire  a-comin'  closter  an'  closter  to  the  trail.  Pore 
Brown  he  tried  to  help  him  some  by  walkin',  but  between 
the  excitement  an'  the  smoke  gittin'  into  his  lungs,  it  were 
too  much  for  him,  an'  he  dropped  down  helpless  as  a  new- 
born baby. 

"The  kid,  he  takes  a  survey  of  things  an',  little  as  he 


120        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

knowed  'bout  fires  in  the  chapparal,  he  seen  mighty  plain, 
that  they  were  at  the  critical  pint,  an'  if  they  didn't  git 
past  the  next  hundred  feet  mighty  soon,  the  fire  would 
cut  'em  off,  an'  it  would  be  good-bye  gay  world  to  'em 
both. 

"Then  he  hears  a  moan  from  Brown  an',  lookin'  round, 
sees  him  lyin'  flat  on  the  ground  with  one  hand  clapped 
over  his  mouth,  an'  tricklin'  between  his  fingers  was  a 
stream  of  blood.  Didn't  take  him  but  a  second  to  know 
it  were  a  hemorrhage ;  beats  all  what  them  fellers  do  learn 
at  them  colleges,  don't  it? 

"Brown  were  a-workin'  away  with  one  hand  at  the 
little  pocket  in  his  shirt  an',  in  his  eagerness  an'  excite- 
ment, the  button  wouldn't  come  open.  The  boy  jumped  to 
his  side,  tore  the  button  loose,  an'  pulled  from  the  pocket 
a  little  tobacco  sack  with  something  in  it.  Brown  he  holds 
out  one  hand  palm  up,  an'  nodded  to  the  boy  to  open  the 
sack,  which  he  did,  an'  then  poured  out  into  his  hand  a 
little  pile  of  common  table  salt.  You  know  them  lunger- 
fellers  most  of  'em  carries  a  little  sack  of  salt  agin'  jist 
such  emergencies.  Brown  he  throwed  his  head  back  an' 
swallowed  every  grain  of  it  an',  bimeby,  the  blood  stopped 
running  so  hard.  He  struggled  to  his  feet,  then  waved  his 
hand  to 'rd  the  top  an',  with  a  beseechin'  look  in  his  eyes, 
tried  to  git  the  kid  to  savvy  that  he  was  to  go  on  an'  leave 
him  to  die. 

"But  the  boy  he  wa'n't  made  of  that  sort  of  stuff.  He's 
jist  about  skeered  to  death  at  the  sight  of  the  blood,  but 
he  pulls  hisself  together,  grabs  Brown  in  his  arms  agin, 
an'  grits  his  teeth  for  another  fight  for  their  lives. 


The  Tenderfoot  from  Yale  121 

"Finally,  he  comes  to  a  place  where,  about  ten  feet 
ahead,  the  fire  was  clean  acrost  the  trail.  He  puts  Brown 
down  for  a  minute,  pulls  off  his  coat,  lays  it  on  the  ground, 
an'  pours  over  it  what  water  was  left  in  his  water  bag. 
Then  he  wraps  Brown's  head  an'  shoulders  in  the  coat  an', 
grabbing  him  up  in  his  arms,  agin  makes  a  last  dash 
through  the  smoke  an'  fire. 

"Seems  like  he  hears  a  woman's  voice  above  the  roar 
of  the  fire  an'  he  sort  of  wonders  is  he  gittin'  a  little  loco 
with  it  all.  Next  he  knows  he's  a-drawin'  in  big  gulps  of 
air  that  ain't  full  of  smoke,  an'  there's  a  woman  a-walkin' 
longside  of  him,  steadyin'  him  as  he  staggers  under  his 
load  an'  a-rubbin'  out,  with  a  wet  gunny  sack,  the  places 
where  his  an'  Brown's  clothes  are  a-smokin'. 

"It  all  appears  as  a  horrible  dream  to  him,  an'  fust 
thing  he  knows,  he  don't  know  nothin',  for  he's  gone  an' 
keeled  over  in  a  dead  faint.  Don't  laugh,  you  fool ;  didn't 
you  ever  work  at  a  fire  till  it  seemed  as  if  your  lungs  was 
a-goin'  to  bust  an'  your  heart  was  a-beatin'  like  a  cock 
patridge  on  a  log? 

"Then  he  gits  a  quart  or  more  of  cold  water  slap  in 
the  face,  opens  his  eyes,  an'  there's  Hank's  wife  a-standin' 
over  him.  Clost  by  was  Brown,  alive  an'  apparently 
uninjured.  She  knowed  if  he  got  through  a-tall  he's 
bound  to  come  out  right  about  there  and  was  a-watchin'  for 
him. 

"When  we  comes  along  'bout  three  hours  later,  we  finds 
the  boy  and  the  woman  hard  at  work,  back-firin'  along 
the  old  stage  road  an'  the  fire  pretty  well  under  control 
on  that  side. 


122        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

"Say,  that  kid  were  a  sight  to  look  at.  He  ain't  got 
no  more  eyebrows  or  lashes  than  a  rabbit,  an'  that  there 
curly  mop  of  his  was  singed  an'  scorched  like  the  rats  had 
been  a  chawin*  onto  it." 

"And  Brown?"  asked  Jack. 

"Oh,  Brown,  why  he  come  through  all  right.  Saw  a 
lot  of  his  funny  pictures  in  the  Sunday  supplement  last 
week.  Teared  like  the  fire  done  him  good." 


DUMMY* 

T  1 1AKE  him,  Bob;  take  him,  boy."  The  woman  pointed 
A  to  a  coyote  skulking  in  the  sage  brush  a  hundred 
yards  from  the  camp  wagon  beside  which  she  stood.  The 
dog  raced  toward  the  animal  which  turned  and  stopped, 
a  nasty  snarl  coming  from  its  lips,  teeth  bared,  every  hair 
of  its  mane  erect.  Almost  as  large  as  a  full  grown  wolf  it 
outweighed  the  dog  by  many  pounds. 

Surprised  at  the  coyote's  hostile  attitude  the  Airedale 
stopped  for  a  moment,  then  advanced  cautiously,  realizing 
that  this  coyote  differed  somewhat  from  those  he  had  met 
before. 

Instantly  the  coyote  flew  at  the  dog,  burying  its  keen 
teeth  deep  in  his  left  leg,  leaping  quickly  back  to  avoid  a 
clinch,  its  jaws  snapping  like  castanets.  The  dog,  though 
taken  by  surprise,  fought  with  all  the  fury  of  his  breed, 
but  being  only  a  pup  was  manifestly  overmatched.  Real- 
izing the  dangerous  character  of  the  coyote,  the  woman 
seized  the  camp  axe  standing  at  the  front  wheel  of  the 
wagon  and  ran  to  the  aid  of  her  protector. 

The  coyote  tore  loose  from  the  dog's  grip  and  jumped 
at  her  as  she  came  nearer.  She  swung  the  axe  as  the  ani- 

*By  permission  National  Wool  Growers'  Magazine 

123 


124        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

mal  raised  in  the  air,  missed  its  head  by  six  inches,  and, 
before  she  could  gather  herself  for  another  blow,  it  sank 
its  fangs  deep  into  her  bare  arm.  Encouraged  by  her 
presence  the  dog  fastened  himself  to  the  animal's  hind- 
quarters, but  shaking  him  loose  it  lunged  at  her  again.  She 
stood  her  ground,  thrusting  the  axe  at  the  brute  in  an 
endeavor  to  keep  it  at  bay.  Meantime  the  door  to  the  camp 
wagon  opened,  a  boy  about  fifteen  jumped  to  the  ground, 
in  his  hand  a  heavy  automatic  pistol.  As  the  coyote  sprang 
at  the  woman's  body  he  thrust  the  weapon  under  her  arm 
almost  in  the  animal's  face,  and  the  shot  that  followed 
blew  half  its  ugly  head  away. 

As  the  beast  sank  to  the  ground  the  woman  dropped 
the  axe,  ran  to  the  wagon,  picked  up  a  rope  hobble  that  lay 
on  the  tongue,  tied  it  around  her  arm  above  the  wound  and. 
with  a  short  piece  of  stick,  twisted  the  improvised  tourniquet 
until  it  sank  deep  into  the  white  flesh.  The  boy,  the  while 
uttering  those  strange  inarticulate  sounds  of  the  deaf  and 
dumb,  wrote  a  few  words  upon  the  slate  that  hung  from 
his  neck  by  a  leather  thong  and  handed  it  to  the  woman. 
"The  signal — shoot  the  signal,"  she  read. 

She  seized  the  automatic  the  boy  had  used,  raised  it 
above  her  head,  fired  two  quick  shots,  waited  a  moment, 
and  fired  two  more.  As  she  listened  there  came  through 
the  still  cold  air  an  answer,  sharp  and  staccato  as  the  spark 
from  a  wireless. 

Then,  and  not  until  then,  did  the  woman  relax  and 
sink  to  the  ground  as  if  dead. 

The  physical  disabilities  of  the  boy  had  given  him  a 
keenness  and  comprehension  far  beyond  his  years.  He 


Dummy  125 

clambered  into  the  wagon,  drew  from  its  scabbard  a  heavy 
rifle,  jumped  to  the  ground  and  repeated  the  signal  three 
times.  Could  his  ears  have  served  him  he  would  have  heard 
the  answering  shots,  this  time  much  nearer. 

No  rider  in  a  Wild  West  relay  race  ever  quit  his  pony 
with  greater  speed  than  did  Jim  Stanley  as  he  reached 
his  camp,  where  with  one  quick  glance  he  realized  what  had 
happened.  As  he  dropped  beside  his  wife  she  opened  her 
eyes,  grasped  his  hand  and  struggled  to  rise.  The  boy  ran 
to  the  wagon  returning  quickly  with  a  small  box,  the  well 
known  red  cross  on  its  black  shining  side  proving  it  to  be 
a  "first  aid  kit."  The  woman  smiled  faintly.  Away  back 
in  the  mountains  the  forest  ranger's  wife  had  once  showed 
her  the  box  the  government  furnished  all  its  rangers,  and 
when  the  lambs  were  shipped  in  August  she  coaxed  Stanley 
to  bring  one  back.  He  rather  laughed  at  the  idea,  but  to 
please  her,  bought  one  and,  with  a  woman's  foresight,  it 
had  always  been  kept  in  the  camp  wagon. 

The  prevalence  of  rabies  among  the  coyotes  was  the 
one  live  topic  in  every  sheep  and  cattle  camp  all  over  the 
range  country  and,  realizing  the  serious  nature  of  the 
wound,  the  man  took  the  box  from  the  boy,  opened  it  and 
seized  the  booklet  which  told  briefly  what  to  do  in  such  an 
emergency. 

The  pressure  of  the  tourniquet  was  lessened,  causing 
the  wound  to  bleed  freely,  a  most  valuable  aid  to  its  cleans- 
ing, and  in  a  few  minutes  it  had  been  well  washed  with  hot 
water,  flooded  with  a  strong  solution  of  carbolic  acid  and 
bound  tightly  with  one  of  the  bandages  from  the  box. 

In  the  meantime,  the  man  had  decided  on  his  course. 


126        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

At  a  sign  from  him  the  boy  mounted  the  horse  Stanley 
had  ridden  into  camp  and  rode  rapidly  off  across  the  range. 
While  he  was  gone,  Stanley  outlined  his  plans  to  his  wife. 
With  good  luck  they  could  intercept  the  auto  stage,  that 
passed  down  the  road  every  day,  at  a  point  some  thirty 
miles  distant.  From  there  it  was  seventy-five  miles  to 
town  which  they  would  reach  that  night  in  time  to  catch 
the  midnight  train  to  the  nearest  Pasteur  institute.- 

"But  the  sheep,  Jim?"  and  the  woman  looked  anxiously 
out  on  the  range.  "We  can't  leave  them  all  alone,  you 
better  let  me  make  the  ride  by  myself  and  you  stay  here, 
for  I  can  get  through  all  right." 

Stanley  shook  his  head.  "Not  for  all  the  sheep  in  the 
world  would  I  let  you  go  alone."  He  kissed  her  cheeks. 

"But  Jim,"  she  pleaded,  "it's  too  much  to  risk  and  I'll 
make  it  without  a  bit  of  trouble." 

The  boy  was  just  turning  the  point  of  a  little  hill  near 
camp  driving  before  him  the  two  horses  hobbled  out  the 
night  before.  Stanley  pointed  to  him.  "Dummy  can  turn 
the  trick  all  right  enough,  he's  the  best  herder  in  this  whole 
range  for  his  age,  and  he'll  get  'em  through  if  any  one  can. 
He's  only  a  boy,  but  he  has  a  lot  of  good  horse-sense  and 
if  the  weather  holds  out  he'll  work  the  herd  from  here  to 
the  winter  range  and  not  lose  a  sheep." 

"But  we'll  take  the  team  with  us;  how  can  he  move 
camp?"  and  she  glanced  at  the  big  roomy  camp  wagon. 

"That  saddle  pony  of  mine  will  carry  all  the  grub  and 
bedding  he'll  need  and  the  wagon  can  stand  right  here  till 
some  of  us  can  get  back  and  haul  it  away." 

The  man  hung  a  nose  bag  full  of  oats  on  each  horse, 


Dummy  127 

saddling  them  as  they  ate,  and  while  he  was  getting  out 
the  pack  outfit,  food,  and  other  supplies  for  the  boy,  she 
was  writing  his  instructions  on  the  slate,  supplemented  by 
many  signs  and  motions  which  he  read  as  easily  as  the 
written  words.  He  was  to  stay  in  this  camp  two  or  three 
days  longer,  then  pack  the  pony  with  his  camp  outfit  and 
drift  the  sheep  slowly  toward  the  winter  range  seventy- 
five  miles  below. 

"Take  plenty  of  food,"  she  wrote,  "for  it  may  be  ten 
days  before  some  one  gets  out  to  relieve  you.  You  know 
the  way,  don't  you?" 

Dummy  nodded  eagerly.  He  had  come  up  with  the 
sheep  in  the  spring  and  knew  every  camp  and  bed-ground 
on  the  trail. 

"Don't  you  worry  about  him,"  Stanley  told  his  wife, 
when  she  again  spoke  of  the  danger  of  leaving  the  boy  all 
alone.  "He's  short  two  good  ears,  that's  sure,  but  he  more 
than  makes  up  for  them  in  gumption  and  common-sense. 
If  it  don't  come  on  to  storm,  he'll  make  it  through  all  right 
and  by  the  time  he  gets  there  I'll  have  a  man  ready  to 
relieve  him,  if  I'm  not  there  myself." 

"And  if  it  does  storm,"  he  continued,  "he'll  probably 
do  just  about  as  well  as  any  one  else,  for  out  here,  if  it 
comes  on  a  blizzard,  all  the  best  man  in  the  world  could  do 
would  be  to  let  the  sheep  drift  before  it  till  they  strike 
shelter." 

Fifteen  minutes  later,  the  boy  watched  them  ride  out 
of  sight,  over  a  ridge  near  camp.  As  the  two  figures  were 
lost  to  view  he  turned  toward  the  wagon  and  took  a  short 
survey  of  his  surroundings.  Out  on  the  range  twelve 


128        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

hundred  ewes  were  peacefully  grazing  with  no  hand  but 
his  to  guide  and  protect  them ;  what  a  chance  to  show  the 
stuff  in  him!  Deep  down  in  his  heart  he  hoped  that  the 
man  who  was  to  come  out  from  the  railroad  to  relieve  him 
would  be  delayed  for  many  days.  It  would  give  him  a 
chance  to  make  good  and  show  his  worth. 

For  three  days  Dummy  led  an  uneventful  life.  The 
dog  was  recovering  from  his  wounds,  the  sheep  were  doing 
well,  and  he  had  shot  another  rascally  coyote  that  came 
skulking  about  the  camp  one  evening. 

On  the  fourth  day  the  sky  was  overcast  with  heavy 
clouds  that  seemed  threatening  and,  as  the  feed  near  camp 
was  about  gone,  he  decided  it  was  time  to  be  moving.  In 
two  hours  he  was  off,  the  dog  limping  along  by  his  side, 
the  herd  slowly  grazing  their  way  across  the  range. 

As  a  precautionary  measure  he  led  the  pack  horse  lest 
old  "Slippers"  take  it  into  his  head  to  desert  him.  That 
night  Dummy  made  camp  under  the  lee  of  some  small  hills 
where  a  few  scattered  cedars  offered  fire-wood  and  shelter. 
The  sun  had  set  in  an  angry  sky,  there  was  a  strange 
feeling  in  the  air,  and  the  sheep  seemed  to  sense  an  approach- 
ing storm. 

He  bedded  them  down  in  the  most  sheltered  spot  he 
could  find,  set  up  his  little  miner's  tent  close  to  a  cedar 
and,  after  cooking  his  supper,  took  the  dog  into  the  tent, 
tied  the  flaps  and  slept  as  only  a  tired  boy  of  his  age  can 
sleep. 

The  tent  was  lit  with  the  dim  gray  of  early  dawn,  when 
the  dog's  cold  nose  on  his  face  awoke  him,  and  he  was  soon 
outside,  opening  up  the  fire  hole  he  had  carefully  covered 


Dummy  129 

the  night  before.  The  wind  was  blowing  a  gale  while  over- 
head the  sky  was  that  dull  leaden  color  that  in  the  range 
country  means  snow. 

Late  that  afternoon  he  worked  the  sheep  toward  a  line 
of  low  cliffs  that  cut  across  the  prairie  and  bedded  them 
down  in  their  lee,  finding  for  himself  a  snug  overhanging 
shelf  of  rock,  under  which  he  placed  his  camp  outfit,  and 
cooked  his  first  meal  since  daylight. 

Dummy  dared  not  hobble  out  his  horse  in  such  a  night, 
but  after  giving  him  a  small  feed  of  grain  he  had  brought 
from  the  wagon,  staked  the  animal  in  a  little  grassy  wash 
near  camp. 

By  dark  the  snow  began  to  fall  heavily  and  he  knew 
that  for  him  and  his  woolly  companions  the  morrow  would 
be  full  of  new  troubles. 

Lost  to  all  sounds  of  the  storm,  the  lad  sat  before  the 
little  campfire  under  the  overhanging  rock  and  watched 
the  snow  drive  before  the  wind.  With  the  confidence  of  one 
born  and  raised  amid  such  conditions,  Dummy  rather  en- 
joyed the  prospect  of  a  struggle  against  the  elements.  His 
parents  were  Basques  from  the  Spanish  Pyrenees,  a  sturdy 
dependable  race  that  for  centuries  have  been  sheepherders 
in  their  own  land.  Every  winter,  from  the  open  ranges  of 
the  West,  come  tales  of  "basco"  sheepherders  facing  death 
in  the  storms,  rather  than  desert  their  herds.  Their  de- 
votion to  their  woolly  charges,  good  judgment  in  handling 
them  and  loyalty  to  their  employers'  interests,  even  unto 
death,  is  recognized  all  over  the  western  range  country, 
until  the  name  "basco"  stands  for  the  best  in  sheepherders. 

From  such  as  these  sprang  this  boy,  deaf  and  dumb 


130        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

from  his  birth.  His  father  and  his  uncle  were  among  the 
best  herders  in  the  state,  and  from  a  child  he  had  been  used 
to  the  rough  life  of  a  sheep  camp.  Deficient  as  he  was  in 
two  vital  senses,  the  remaining  ones  had  been  developed 
until  his  ability  to  grasp  and  understand  things  about  him 
seemed  almost  uncanny.  It  was  this  knowledge  of  the  boy's 
breeding  and  peculiarities  that  made  Stanley  feel  he  would 
take  the  best  possible  care  of  the  sheep  left  in  his  charge. 

When  Dummy  opened  his  eyes  the  next  morning,  the 
air  was  so  full  of  snow  driving  before  a  fifty-mile  gale 
that  he  could  not  see  a  hundred  feet  from  camp.  He 
cooked  his  breakfast,  fed  Slippers  the  last  of  the  grain, 
and  waited  for  the  storm  to  break,  realizing  that  until  it 
did  it  would  be  folly  to  leave  the  shelter  of  the  cliffs. 

The  sheep  were  getting  restless  and  hungry  and  occa- 
sionally small  bunches  drifted  out  into  the  storm  in  search 
of  feed,  but  after  buffeting  with  the  wind  for  a  few  moments 
were  glad  to  come  back.  About  noon  there  came  a  lull  in 
the  gale  and  the  snow  came  straight  down  almost  in  clouds. 
The  sheep  were  uneasy  over  the  change,  and  even  Slippers 
seemed  to  sense  some  new  danger. 

Suddenly  with  a  roar  the  wind  swept  upon  them  from  a 
new  direction  so  that  they  were  now  exposed  to  its  full  fury, 
whereas,  before,  they  had  been  sheltered  by  the  cliffs. 

The  sheep  tried  to  face  it,  but  the  fierce  wind  was  too 
much  for  them,  and  they  slowly  drifted  before  the  gale 
across  the  snow-covered  range. 

All  that  day  Dummy  struggled  along  behind  the  herd 
tired,  cold,  hungry,  and  almost  blinded  by  the  frozen  tears, 
leading  the  pack  horse  lest  he  lose  him.  As  for  controlling 


Dummy  131 

the  movements  of  the  sheep,  he  did  nothing  for  they  could 
travel  in  but  one  direction,  and  that  was  away  from  the 
arctic  blast  which  grew  in  strength  as  the  day  wore  on. 
Wherever  there  was  a  sign  of  anything  eatable  upon  which 
the  hungry  animals  could  feed,  they  ate  even  the  woody 
stems  of  the  sage  or  the  dry  yellow  fibre-like  leaves  of  the 
Yuccas  that  here  and  there  showed  above  the  snow. 

The  short  winter  day  began  to  wane,  and  darkness  was 
slowly  creeping  across  the  white  cover  that  lay  over  the 
land.  All  sense  of  direction  and  time  had  long  since  left  the 
lad,  but  he  struggled  on,  the  dog  limping  along  at  his  side. 

Just  as  the  last  signs  of  daylight  faded  away  the  sheep 
stopped  moving,  and  he  was  unable  to  start  them  again. 
He  wrapped  the  lead  rope  of  his  horse  about  a  sage  bush  as 
best  he  could,  then  worked  his  way  through  the  herd  looking 
for  the  cause  of  their  stopping.  Stumbling  and  falling  over 
snow-hidden  rocks  and  bushes,  he  found  himself  almost 
stepping  off  into  empty  space  over  a  cliff,  where  the  snow 
had  built  out  from  its  edge  in  such  a  manner  as  to  conceal 
its  presence,  and,  even  as  he  threw  himself  back  from  the 
step  he  was  about  to  take,  he  saw  several  sheep  walk  blindly 
out  into  the  semi-darkness  and  disappear  into  the  depth 
below. 

The  loss  of  these  roused  into  action  every  drop  of  his 
basco  blood.  In  the  dim  light  he  could  just  make  out  where 
the  edge  of  the  cliff  lay  and,  carefully  working  his  way 
along  it,  beat  the  stolid  mass  of  animals  back  from  the 
danger.  By  this  time  it  was  almost  dark  and  he  turned 
back  to  find  his  horse,  but  after  half  an  hour's  search  gave 
it  up  and  returned  to  the  herd,  hoping  the  animal  might  be 


132        Tale*  from  the  X -Bar  Harte  Camp 

with  the  fail  enders  of  the 
a  break  in  the  difl 
one.    He 


for  the  p«<±  hor*e  with  its 


ral  soft  objects  in  the  An* 


ant*  tn  IM  wwm*-  jrf  llt 


tibecfiff.    Whai  he  finaflji^aliied  that  the 


nd  breakfwt,  nd  after  cUrtiog  *  fie  skinned  out  m  hind 
of  the  faflea  Aetp  md  mm  had  ton*  of  it 
thrboj,  he  focmd  piled  againrt 
the  dftf  *  lot  of  pole*  that  had  eridentlj  been  put  of  an 
old  corral,  which  Made  it  pomUe  for  fain  to  keep  the  fire 


peeral  through  the  faffing  mow  the 
da  j  a$  the  gnj  dawn  eaine  slowij  into  the  east    The 
orer  toe  diff  iron  aoore  had  fonned 


was  no  possibility  of  learin^  the  shelter 


hi*  bearing    Ero  then  he  doubted  if  it  would  be  |i  n  niHi 
lor  the  sheep  to  tratrel^  so  deep  was  the  snow, 

About  KM*  UK  MOV  stopped  £*IKiift  and  Dammj 
worked  Imwaj  op  to  the  top  erf  the  diff  from  whidi  as  lar 
«»  be  «0o1d  flee  there  was  but  *  broad  expanse  of 


To  Mi  left  fl*  *fev  was  cut  off  b  y  a  small  hffl  that  stood 
close  to  the  cliff.  He  went  OYCT  to  it  and  from  its  top  saw 
below  him  in  the  open  plain  a  small  board  shack  with  a 
rough  shed  stable  near  it 

Instant!  j  he  remembered  that,  as  they  passed  up  with 
the  sheep  in  the  spring,  a  man  and  his  wife  were  busy  build- 
ing the  shack  preparatory  to  taking  up  the  land  about  it 
for  dry  farming  purposes.  Eagerly  he  watched  the  house 
for  signs  of  occupancy,  but  as  there  was  no  smoke  coming 
from  the  chimney,  he  decided  it  was  empty.  Two  things 
interested  him,  however.  One,  the  fact  that  the  plowed 


almost  clear  of  snow,  and  the  other,  there  was  something 
half  hidden  by  the  house  which  looked  mightOy  like  a  stack 
of  hay,  although  it  scarcely  seemed  that  this  could  be  true. 

In  the  field,  which  corered  perhaps  forty  acres,  he  saw 
the  possibility  of  finding  a  littie  feed  for  the  sheep  until  tiie 
snow  should  settle  eapogfa  to  allow  them  to  travel  and,  if 
the  stack  really  was  hay  or  any  rough  feed,  his  troubles 
were  orer  for  the  present  at  feast. 

As  the  lad  turned  back  to  camp  he  reaHied  only  too 
well  the  difficulty  of  moTmg  the  herd  until  the  snow  settled, 
it  being  fully  eighteen  inches  deep  on  the  tare!,  and  every- 
where there  were  drifts  many  feet  high  through  which  the 
sheep  in  their  weakened  condition  could  not  make  their  way. 

But  it  was  less  than  half  a  mife  at  the  most  from  the 
camp  to  the  shack,  and  he  was  sure  he  could  work  the  sheep 


keep  them  from  starring. 

AM  he  suspected,  he  found  the  place  deserted,  and  the 


134        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

stack  proved  to  be  fodder  of  some  description  surrounded 
by  a  strong  fence.  The  shed,  which  had  a  small  door  hang- 
ing on  one  hinge  and  about  half  open,  was  as  dark  as  a 
cellar  and,  as  he  stepped  inside,  the  nose  of  his  lost  horse 
was  fairly  pushed  into  his  face,  and  but  for  his  infirmity 
he  could  have  heard  the  most  gladsome  nickering  and 
whinnying  to  which  a  lone  hungry  horse  ever  gave  tongue. 
A  few  threads  of  canvas  on  the  door  post  told  the  story  of 
the  trap  the  animal  had  walked  into.  Looking  for  food 
and  shelter,  he  had  squeezed  through  the  half  open  door, 
but,  once  inside,  the  wide  pack  striking  it  on  one  side  and 
the  door  post  on  the  other,  held  him  a  prisoner. 

Quickly  the  boy  removed  the  pack,  then,  armed  with  the 
camp  shovel  and  axe,  went  to  investigate  the  stack.  It 
looked  more  like  weeds  than  anything  else  and  when  he 
grabbed  a  handful  it  was  rough  and  harsh  and  pricked 
his  hands.  It  was  green,  however,  and  the  horse  ate  it 
greedily. 

With  the  finding  of  his  horse  the  lad's  spirit  rose  and  he 
set  to  work  to  move  the  sheep  over.  Between  the  camp  and 
the  house  there  was  a  deep  wash  which  the  drifting  snow 
had  almost  filled,  while  elsewhere  there  was  fully  eighteen 
inches.  With  the  pack-saddle  on  the  horse,  the  lash  rope 
for  traces,  and  an  old  sled,  evidently  used  by  the  farmer  to 
haul  water,  he  started  to  break  a  trail  through  which  the 
sheep  could  make  their  way,  the  shovel  being  used  on  the 
drifts.  With  a  little  coaxing  he  got  them  started  through 
this  narrow  lane,  and  eventually  the  whole  bunch  was  inside 
the  field  eagerly  gnawing  every  eatable  thing  in  sight. 

About  half  an  hour  before  dark  that  evening  a  long 


Dummy  185 

string  of  pack  horses,  with  a  rider  in  the  lead  and  another 
following,  came  ploughing  through  the  snow  up  to  the  cliff 
above  where  the  sheep  had  been  bedded.  Two  of  the  horses 
carried  ordinary  camp  packs,  the  rest  were  loaded  with 
hay,  three  bales  to  the  horse.  At  the  edge  of  the  cliff  the 
leader  pulled  up  while  every  animal  stopped  in  its  tracks. 

"If  we  can't  see  anything  of  the  sheep  from  here  we 
might  just  as  well  give  it  up  for  the  night,"  he  called  back 
to  his  companion.  "Come  on  up  and  have  a  look." 

For  a  few  minutes  they  both  sat  gazing  out  into  the 
plain  below,  across  which  the  evening  shadows  were  slowly 
trailing.  As  far  as  they  could  see  there  was  but  a  white 
unbroken  sheet  of  snow,  the  only  living  thing  visible  being 
half  a  dozen  ravens  cawing  hoarsely  as  they  drifted  into 
the  distance. 

The  second  man  pulled  out  his  pipe,  loaded,  and  lit  it. 

"Jim,"  he  queried,  "do  you  know  what  night  this  is  ?" 

"I  reckon  I  do,"  and  Stanley's  voice  choked.  "It's 
Christmas  eve,  an'  I  been  a-thinkin'  an'  a-thinkin'  all  after- 
noon of  that  poor  little  chap  out  here  a-fightin'  his  way 
through  a  storm,  the  like  of  which  this  range  ain't  seen  in 
twenty  years.  Don't  seem  possible  he's  pulled  through, 
although  I'd  back  Dummy  to  make  it  and  save  his  herd  if 
any  kid  could." 

Suddenly  he  turned  his  head  and  sniffed. 

"Seems  like  I  smell  smoke,  and  cedar  smoke  at  that," 
he  said  eagerly.  "Don't  you  git  it,  Bob?" 

"Which  way's  the  wind?"  and  Bob  blew  a  cloud  of 
smoke  into  the  frosty  air. 

"What  there  is  comes  from  the  direction  of  that  there 


136        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

little  hill,"  pointing  to  the  very  hill  on  which  Dummy  had 
stood. 

The  instant  they  topped  it,  each  caught  sight  of  the 
dry  farmer's  place,  the  haystack,  the  sheep  in  the  field  and 
knew  they  had  found  that  for  which  they  sought. 

"You  know  the  place?"  asked  Bob,  as  they  hurried 
down. 

"I  do  for  a  fact,"  Stanley  grinned,  "last  time  I  passed 
this-a-way  the  old  digger  what  built  that  shack  an'  taken 
up  the  dry  farm  was  cuttin'  an'  stackin'  Russian  thistles. 
When  I  laughed  at  him  for  a  fool  he  said  he  ain't  raised 
nothing'  else,  an'  up  North  Dakota  way  they  used  to  put 
'em  up  for  roughness  when  the  crops  failed,  an'  he's  seen 
many  an  old  Nellie  pulled  through  a  hard  winter  on  'em." 

Ten  minutes  later  the  two  rode  up  to  the  shack.  A  line 
of  scattered  fodder  from  the  stack  to  the  shed  showed  what 
the  boy  had  been  doing.  Bob  picked  up  a  handful  of  the 
stuff:  "Roosian  thistles  by  all  that's  holy,"  was  his  com- 
ment, "an'  whoever  before  heerd  tell  of  them  tumble  weeds 
a-bein'  good  for  anything  to  eat." 

As  he  spoke  the  lad  came  round  the  corner  of  the  shed 
in  which  "Slippers"  had  been  comfortably  stabled  and  fed. 

What  with  smoke  from  campfires,  and  the  charcoal  he 
had  smeared  over  it  to  save  his  eyes,  his  face  was  as  black 
as  Toby's  hat,  but  to  Stanley  it  was  the  face  of  a  hero. 
Uttering  those  strange  guttural  sounds,  waving  his  arms 
towards  the  sheep,  his  dark  eyes  shining  with  pride  and  joy 
the  boy  ran  to  Stanley  as  a  child  to  its  father. 

The  man,  too  overwhelmed  and  happy  to  speak,  grabbed 
the  lad  close  to  his  heart,  stroking  the  tousled  head  and 


Dummy  137 

patting  tenderly  the  dirty  cheeks  down  which  the  child's 
tears  were  now  cutting  deep  trails  in  their  extra  covering 
while,  as  he  realized  the  boy  could  hear  not  a  word  of  the 
praise  and  thanks  he  was  showering  on  him  for  his  pluck 
and  fidelity  the  tears  came  to  his  own  eyes  nor  did  he  try  to 
stop  them. 

In  the  shack  that  night  the  boy,  worn  out  by  his  ex- 
posure and  the  reaction,  dropped  into  his  bed  the  instant 
supper  had  been  eaten  and  was  fast  asleep  in  ten  seconds. 

The  two  men  smoked  in  silence  before  the  little  fireplace 
in  the  corner. 

"Do  you  reckon  we  could  make  a  stab  at  some  sort  of  a 
Christmas  tree  an'  kinda  s'prise  the  kid  in  the  morning?" 
Stanley  glanced  toward  the  figure  asleep  on  the  floor. 

"Jest  what  I  was  a  studyin'  over,"  was  Bob's  reply. 
"These  here  bascos  make  a  heap  of  such  holidays  an' 
Dummy  he'd  be  the  tickledest  kid  ever,  if  he  was  to  find 
something  like  Christmas  time  a  settin'  by  his  bed  when  he 
wakes  up  in  the  morning." 

Bob  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe  and  put  it  away. 

"There's  a  bunch  of  pinons  and  cedars  down  along  the 
wash,"  he  said,  "sposin'  I  take  the  axe  an'  git  a  little  branch, 
or  the  tip  of  a  pinon  an'  we  set  her  up  here  by  his  bed? 
What  kin  we  dig  up  to  put  onto  it  that's  fittin'  for  such  a 
thing?" 

"For  a  starter  I  got  them  nine  silver  cart  wheels  the 
store  keeper  give  me  in  change,"  was  Stanley's  quick  re- 
sponse. Bob  was  already  going  through  his  pockets. 

"Here's  a  handful  of  chicken  feed,  that'll  help  some," 
handing  the  change  to  Stanley,  "yep,  an'  a  paper  dollar  the 


138        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

postmaster  gimme.  Reckon  the  kid'll  know  what  it  is?  I 
been  skeert  I'd  use  it  fer  a  cigarette  paper." 

Stanley  started  for  the  two  kyacks  lying  in  the  corner. 

"You  hustle  out  an'  git  the  tree,"  said  he,  "an'  I'll  see 
what  else  I  can  scare  up  in  the  packs.  I  know  there's  a 
couple  of  apples  an'  a  orange  I  throwed  in  with  the  grub 
when  we  was  packin'." 

An  hour  later  the  two  men  stood  by  the  boy's  bed,  their 
faces  fairly  shining  with  the  true  Christmas  spirit  over 
their  efforts  to  make  an  acceptable  Christmas  tree  out  of 
such  scanty  material.  On  the  floor  at  his  head  stood  a  small 
pinon  tree  top  held  erect  by  several  stones.  Both  men  had 
exhausted  their  ingenuity  to  find  things  with  which  to 
decorate  it  and  on  its  branches  hung  the  oddest  lot  of 
plunder  that  ever  old  "Santy"  left  on  his  rounds. 

"I'll  never  miss  them  spurs,  said  Bob  pointing  to  an 
almost  new  pair  he  had  recently  bought,  "an'  Dummy,  he's 
been  just  daffy  about  'em." 

"Same  with  that  new  knife,"  said  Stanley.  "I  jist 
bought  it  to  be  a  doin'  somethin'  an'  I  know  Dummy  ain't 
got  one  that'll  cut  cold  butter." 

In  nine  separate  little  packages  wrapped  in  newspaper 
the  silver  dollars  were  swinging  at  the  end  of  pieces  of 
thread  from  a  spool  in  Bob's  "war  bag,"  the  loose  silver 
had  been  placed  in  two  empty  tobacco  sacks  each  hanging 
pendant  from  the  tip  of  a  limb,  while  three  unbroken  pack- 
ages of  chewing  gum,  two  apples  and  one  rather  dilapidated 
orange  swung  from  other  branches. 

Stanley  picked  up  the  boy's  slate.  "Less'  see,"  he 
asked,  "what's  Dummy's  real  name?" 


Dummy  139 

"Pedro,"  answered  Bob,  busy  making  down  their  bed 
on  the  floor. 

Painstaking  and  slowly,  he  wrote : 

TO  PEDRO 

A  MERRY  CHRISTMAS. 
YOU  ARE  SURE  SOME  SHEEP  MAN. 

Then  he  propped  the  slate  against  the  tree  in  plain  sight 
of  the  lad's  eyes  when  he  woke. 

"Beats  hell  how  a  man's  eyes  gits  to  waterin'  this  cold 
weather."  Stanley  wiped  his  eyes  rather  furtively  as  he 
turned  toward  their  bed. 

"Same  here,"  replied  Bob,  blowing  his  nose  with  more 
than  usual  vigor.  "Somethin'  sure  does  act  onto  'em." 


«««j«.        '\  U*U  l!=y  HSU  IRM  ^ 

SHOW     WOUHO     IN    AMERICA 


B 


THE  MUMMY  FROM  THE 
GRAND  CANON 

ANG,  bang,  bang!"  went  three  shots  in  the  night 


place  to  sleep,"  said  Little  Bob  Morris,  one  of  three  men 
who  were  sitting  in  front  of  the  fireplace  in  the  snug  little 
dugout  at  the  winter  horse  camp  of  the  X  bar  outfit. 

"Open  the  door,  Bob,  and  show  'em  a  light,"  said  one  of 
the  others.  In  a  few  minutes,  with  a  wild  "whoo-pee,"  a 
mounted  figure  rode  out  of  the  darkness  and  the  boys  were 
shaking  hands  with  "Hog-eye"  Jackson,  who  had  a  pair  of 
eyes  that,  as  one  man  put  it,  "didn't  track,"  one  being  blue, 
the  other  black,  and  both  so  badly  crossed  that  he  looked 
both  ways  at  once. 

After  supper  had  been  cooked  and  the  dishes  put  away, 
the  boys  gathered  about  the  fireplace  for  a  smoke. 

"I  hain't  been  out  this  a-way  since  the  time  me  and 
Little  Bob  here  was  a  huntin'  for  a  dead  Chinee,"  said 
Jackson,  with  a  look  about  the  room. 

"Huntin'  for  a  dead  Chink?"  said  Grimes.  "What  ye 
mean  by  that?" 

"Ain't  you  never  heard  tell  about  the  Chinee  what  died 
over  in  Williams  and  was  stoled  away  from  the  joss  house 

140 


The  Mummy  from  the  Grand  Canon       141 

where  the  other  Chinks  had  him  laid  out?"  said  Jackson, 
with  a  look  of  surprise. 

"Nary  a  hear,"  replied  the  two  boys,  "  le's  have  it." 
"  'Bout  two  years  ago,  along  in  the  fall,"  Jackson 
began,  "after  we  had  shipped  the  last  steers  from  Williams, 
a  Chinese  laundryman  there  died  one  night,  and  was  laid 
out  in  the  little  room  where  the  Chinamen  of  the  town  kept 
their  joss.  The  day  following  there  was  a  tremendous 
squalling  among  the  heathen,  for  during  the  night  Ah  Yen 
had  disappeared  from  the  coffin,  and  not  a  trace  of  him 
could  be  found.  The  coffin  was  there  all  right;  it  stood 
just  where  they  left  it  the  night  before,  surrounded  by 
paper  prayers,  burning  punk  sticks,  and  all  the  other 
things  used  by  the  heathens  to  frighten  away  the  devils 
which  are  supposed  to  be  lyin'  in  wait  for  the  spirit  of  a 
diseased  celestial.  But  punk  or  no  punk,  devils  or  no 
devils,  Ah  Yen  was  gone,  of  that  there  was  no  doubt.  The 
city  marshal  and  the  sheriff  both  came  to  investigate  and 
question,  the  town  was  scoured,  old  stables  and  lofts 
searched,  but  still,  'no  catch  'em.'  After  a  couple  of  days' 
work  the  sheriff  said :  'I'm  danged  if  I'm  not  clear  stumped. 
The  Chink  was  plum  dead,  that's  a  sure  thing,  so  he  didn't 
git  up  and  walk  away,  and  if  he  was  hauled  off  by  some  one, 
they  didn't  leave  any  sign  that  I  can  find,  and,  anyhow 
(which  to  him  was  the  most  convincing  thing  of  all) ,  what'd 
any  one  want  for  to  steal  a  dead  Chinaman,  I'd  like  to 
know  ?' 

"There  was  a  doctor  livin'  over  on  Cataract  canon  that 
fall,  a  sort  of  lunger  chap,  and  when  some  one  suggested 
that  perhaps  he  had  packed  the  Chink  off  for  dissectin' 


142        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

purposes  (Ah  Yen  bein'  six  feet  tall  and  the  best  specimen 
of  a  Chinaman  I'd  ever  seen),  the  sheriff,  just  to  make  a 
sort  of  showin'  to  the  other  Chinks,  sent  me — I  bein'  a 
deputy  sheriff  at  that  time — to  make  a  sort  of  scout  round 
and  see  what  I  could  pick  up. 

"We  dropped  into  his  camp,  but  nothin'  doin',  and  after 
prowling  around  for  a  day  or  two  I  went  back  to  town. 
The  next  day  Scotty  Jones  got  on  a  tear  and  shot  up  the 
burg  pretty  plenty,  and  in  tryin'  to  ride  his  horse  into  a 
Front  Street  saloon  got  a  load  of  buckshot  into  his  coun- 
tenance. This  made  so  much  excitement  that  by  the  time 
the  coroner's  jury  got  done  with  the  inquest  the  loss  of  Ah 
Yen's  remains  had  become  a  matter  of  past  history. 

"Meantime  the  Chinks  raised  a  powerful  rookus  over  the 
loss  of  the  body  of  Ah  Yen,  he  bein'  a  sort  of  high  muck-a- 
muck among  them,  but  even  the  offer  of  a  $100  reward  for 
the  body  didn't  get  any  clews  to  the  disappearance." 

"I  remember  hearin'  something  about  it,"  said  Grimes, 
"but  I  was  down  in  the  Tonto  basin  that  fall  a-huntin'  some 
bosses  we  lost  on  the  spring  work,  and  never  before  did 
hear  jist  what  happened." 

"An'  didn't  they  never  find  out  what  went  with  the 
Chink?"  queried  Russel,  who  was  a  newcomer  in  the  coun- 
try. 

"Well,"  said  'Jackson  rather  evasively,  "so  fur  as  I 
know  nobody's  ever  yit  claimed  the  reward." 

"Le's  change  the  subject,"  said  Grimes,  lighting  his 
pipe  with  a  long  pine  sliver.  "Hog-eye,  where  you  been 
sence  I  seen  you  last  fall  a  year  ago  over  on  the  Tonto 
steer  round  up"  he  asked  of  the  new  comer. 


The  Mummy  from  the  Grand  Canon       143 

"Me?"  said  Jackson,  with  a  start,  blowing  a  cloud  of 
smoke  skyward.  "Oh,  I  been  a  driftin'  about  pretty  pro- 
miscous  like  sence  then.  When  we  come  to  ship  the  last  of 
the  steers  that  fall,  old  Mose,  the  Spur  boss,  axed  me  if  I 
wanted  to  go  back  to  Kansas  and  help  take  care  of  'em 
where  the  outfit  was  going  to  winter  'em.  Well,  me  not  being 
sure  of  a  winter's  job  here,  and  likely  to  have  to  ride  the 
chuck  line  before  spring,  I  reckons  I'd  best  nab  the  job 
whilst  it  was  open,  so  I  took  it." 

"How  long  did  you  last  on  the  cornstalk  job?"  asked 
Russel. 

"Oh,  I  hung  and  rattled  with  it  till  about  April,  and 
then  I  begins  to  git  oneasy  and  sort  of  hankering  for  the 
range  agin.  One  day  I  was  in  town  for  some  grub  and 
other  plunder  and  goes  down  to  the  depot  to  see  the  train 
come  through,  and  me  a  wishin'  to  God  I  was  a  goin'  off  in 
her,  no  matter  which-a-way  she  was  pointed.  When  number 
two  comes  along,  who  should  drop  off  but  old  Pickerell,  who 
used  to  live  out  here  on  the  canon  and  take  tourists  out  and 
show  'em  the  sights.  Pick  were  powerful  glad  to  see  me 
and  he  sed,  ses  he,  'What  be  ye  a  doin'  here,  Jackson  ?' 

"  'I'm  a  doin'  of  the  prodigal  son  act,'  ses  I. 

"  'Come  again,'  ses  he,  lookin'  sort  of  mystified  like. 

"  'I'm  a-feedin'  a  bunch  of  hawgs  and  steers  out  here  on 
a  farm,'  ses  I,  'where  I  ain't  seen  the  sun  shine  but  twicet 
in  four  months.' 

"Pickerell,  he  laughed  sort  of  tickled  like,  an'  ses  to  me, 
'Why  don't  you  quit  and  go  back  to  Arizony,  where  the  sun 
shines  all  the  time  ?' 

"  'I'm  a  goin'  to,'  ses  I,  'just  as  shore  as  next  pay  day 


144        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

comes.'  I  didn't  like  to  tell  him  that  I  was  flat  busted  count 
of  goin'  into  K.  C.  with  a  load  of  hawgs  an'  meetin'  up  with 
a  bunch  of  amigos  what  worked  me  for  a  sure  enough 
sucker.  They  gits  all  my  dmero  an'  leaves  me  locked  up  in 
a  little  old  room  where  we  went  to  git  a  drink." 

Hog-eye  sighed  and  sucked  vigorously  at  his  pipe,  while 
the  boys  grinned  at  each  other  and  waited  to  hear  the  rest 
of  the  story,  which  was  evidently  hanging  on  his  lips. 

"Well,  go  on  Hog-eye,  tell  us  the  rest.  Might  as  well 
'fess  up  and  feel  better,"  said  High-pockets  encouragingly. 

"I  reckon  so,"  replied  Jackson  with  a  chuckle,  as  if 
there  was  some  pleasure  in  the  memories  of  the  past.  "You 
see,  after  talkin'  a  few  minutes  with  Pick  he  up  and  makes 
me  an  offer  to  go  back  east,  where  he  was  a  runnin'  a  show 
what  were  a  part  of  a  street  carnival  outfit  and  a-makin' 
all  kinds  of  money.  He  wanted  me  to  rig  up  in  a  'Mont- 
gomery Ward  outfit,'  big  hat,  goatskin  chaps,  spurs  an' 
gloves,  with  stars  and  fringe  like  them  fellers  in  the  movie 
outfits  gits  onto  'em,  an'  sort  of  loaf  round  the  door 
and  git  people  excited  an'  toll  'em  into  the  show.  So  I  hits 
the  high  places  back  to  the  farm,  and  tells  the  granger 
feller  to  git  him  a  new  cornstalk  pusher  to  take  my  place 
pretty  pronto.  When  he  comes  I  strikes  out  for  the  place 
back  in  Illinoy  where  Pick  sed  he'd  be  showin'  an'  waitin' 
for  my  arrival. 

"Pick  he  pays  me  forty  beans  a  month,  an  we  sleeps  on 
our  round-up  beds  in  one  of  the  tents.  He  shore  had  a 
mess  of  plunder  inside  the  big  tent.  They  was  a  Navajo 
squaw  weavin'  blankets,  a  couple  of  loafer  wolves,  some 
coyotes,  wildcats,  badgers,  a  lot  of  rattlers,  centipedes  and 


The  Mummy  from  the  Grand  Canon       145 

tarantulas,  and  a  whole  box  full  of  them  heely  monsters. 
Besides  this,  he  had  a  lot  of  glass  cases  in  which  he  had  a 
bunch  of  them  stone  axes,  metates,  mano  stones,  arrow- 
heads, and  all  that  sort  of  plunder  which  they  digs  up 
from  them  prehistoric  ruins  all  over  this  country  out  here. 

"But  the  main  drawin'  card  he  had  was  the  mummy 
which  he  sed  he  dug  up  somewheres  out  here  in  the  Grand 
Canon.  He  had  all  sorts  of  certificates  and  letters  to  prove 
its  genuineness,  as  well  as  photographs  taken  when  they 
dug  it  up  in  the  cave. 

"One  day  a  odd-lookin'  four-eyed  feller  comes  along, 
and  he  ses  to  Pick,  'Mought  I  inspect  this  mummy  of 
your'n?'  and  Pick  he  ses,  'Shore,  pardner,  jist  as  much  as 
you  like.  You  come  round  to-morrow  mornin'  fore  the 
show  begins  and  I'll  be  glad  to  have  you  look  the  gent  over.' 

"The  old  boy  ses  he'll  shore  be  on  hand,  for  he's  power- 
ful interested  in  them  prehistoric-  things  out  West.  So 
that  evening,  after  the  show  closed,  Pick  ses  to  me,  'Jack- 
son, you  git  a  screwdriver  and  take  them  screws  outen  the 
lower  lid  of  that  there  mummy  case.'  So  I  loosens  up  the 
screws,  and  havin'  nothin'  particular  to  do,  I  takes  off  the 
lid  to  get  a  better  look  at  his  Nibs.  I  ain't  never  seen  a 
mummy  before,  an'  was  sort  of  curious  to  know  what  a 
shore  enuff  mummy  did  look  like.  He  was  naked  down  to 
his  waist,  and  the  skin  was  as  dry  and  leathery  as  an  old 
cowhide  that's  been  laying  out  in  the  weather  for  ten  years. 
His  eyes  were  shut  tight  and  his  teeth  showed  through  his 
thin  lips  with  a  grin  that  give  me  a  cold  chill  for  a  month 
afterwards.  But,  say,  boys,  talk  about  a  surprise.  One 
look  was  all  I  wanted  to  show  me  that  this  here  mummy  of 


146        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

old  Pick's  was  nothin'  else  but  the  remains  of  old  Ah  Yen, 
the  Chink  what  died  in  Williams  and  was  stole  out  of  the 
joss  house.  Then  I  remembered  the  reward  offered  for  it, 
but  old  Pick  were  too  square  a  feller  to  soak  that-a-way. 
I  never  said  nothin'  to  nobody  about  what  I'd  seen,  but 
slipped  the  lid  back  on  the  case  and  went  off  to  bed  in  the 
other  tent. 

"Long  about  midnight  I  was  woke  up  by  somebody  a 
hollerin'  fire,  and  when  I  busted  out  of  the  tent  the  whole 
row  of  shacks  was  a  blazin'.  Our  big  tent  was  too  far 
gone  to  save  anything,  but  we  drug  out  our  beds  and  what 
little  baggage  we  had  in  the  small  tent  and  did  well  to  git 
that  much  out.  Inside  an  hour  there  wasn't  nothin'  left 
but  a  pile  of  ashes  to  show  where  the  whole  outfit  stood. 

"Old  man  Pick,  he  took  on  considerable,  but  'twan't  no 
use  cryin'  over  spilt  milk,  an'  so  we  hit  the  trail  for  Arizony 
an'  a  little  sunshine." 

"But  how  did  Pickerell  git  holt  of  that  there  Chink's 
body?"  asked  Morris,  who  had  listened  with  amazement  at 
the  story. 

.  Jackson  grinned  as  he  slowly  knocked  the  ashes  from 
his  pipe.  "It  sort  of  hacked  the  old  man  when  he  found  I 
was  wise  to  his  little  game  with  the  Chink,"  he  said.  "Over 
in  Albuquerque  he  met  up  with  a  feller  who  was  a-goin' 
down  into  Central  America  on  a  sort  of  bug  huntin'  expedi- 
tion and  he  talked  Pick  into  goin'  with  him.  The  night 
before  we  split  at  Albuquerque  he  gits  fuller  than  a  goat, 
an'  seein'  as  how  he  wasn't  comin'  back  to  these  parts  agin, 
he  give  me  a  great  old  confidential  an'  tole  me  how  he 
turned  the  trick. 


The  Mummy  from  the  Grand  Canon       147 

"I  disremember  all  that  Pickerell  done  tole  me  of  the 
way  the  job  was  worked,"  continued  Jackson,  "but,  how- 
somever,  the  day  the  Chink  died  the  one-lunged  doctor 
was  in  town.  Pickerell  he's  been  a  tellin'  him  about  the 
mummies  they  occasionally  found  out  in  them  cliff  dwellers' 
ruins  in  the  canon,  and  when  the  Doc  meets  Pick  hangin' 
about  town  that  afternoon  he  suggests  carryin'  off  the 
Chink's  body  and  makin'  a  mummy  out  of  it.  That  hits 
Pick  all  right  and  he  didn't  let  no  grass  grow  under  his  feet 
gittin'  ready  to  do  it. 

"The  night  of  the  body  snatchin',  he  gits  up  about 
midnight,  slips  uptown,  finds  the  door  of  the  joss  house 
open  and  no  one  watchin'  it.  Hurryin'  back  to  his  cabin, 
he  saddles  up  one  mule  and  slaps  a  packsaddle  on  the 
other,  an'  an  hour  later  drifted  out  of  town  with  a  pack 
on  his  mule  lookin'  for  all  the  world  like  a  long  roll  of 
bedding.  By  noon  the  next  day  he  reached  his  den  in 
the  canon,  where  he  and  the  doctor  went  to  work,  and 
between  'em  did  a  mighty  good  job  of  embalmin',  endin'  it 
all  up  with  a  three  months'  smokin'  of  the  body  with  green 
cedar  wood. 

"Pick  ses  that  then  come  the  tickledest  part  of  the 
hull  job,  fer  whilst  he's  got  a  mummy  all  right,  he's  got 
to  git  it  sort  of  discovered  like  to  make  it  of  any  scientific 
value,  an'  he  studies  the  matter  aplenty.  He  knows  a 
bunch  of  fellers  what  was  a-coming  out  to  the  Grand 
Canon  from  the  East  to  poke  about  an'  try  an'  discover 
prehistoric  things,  and  he  knows  them's  the  very  chaps 
to  help  him  out.  So  when  they  shows  up  he  tells  'em  sort 
of  accidental  like  that  he  knows  where  they's  a  bunch  of 


148        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

them  there  clift  dwellings  what  nobody'd  ever  yit  seen,  and 
they  grabs  at  his  bait  like  hungry  trout.  They  just  can't 
skeercely  wait  to  git  out  there,  and  Pick  ses  the  rest  were 
plumb  easy,  for  the  whole  place  looked, like  it  had  never 
been  disturbed  before,  and  when  they  digs  out  the  mummy 
all  buried  in  the  dirt  and  rubbish  in  one  of  the  cliff  dwell- 
ings, the  thing  was  done. 

"Them  fellers  jist  nachelly  never  suspicioned  a  thing 
and  was  perfectly  willin'  to  sign  a  statement  testifyin'  to 
the  genuineness  of  the  mummy.  Then  they  took  photo- 
graphs of  the  cliff  dwellings  and  the  mummy  as  it  lay  in  the 
room,  and  all  the  surroundin's,  with  all  these  here  scientific 
chaps  a-standin'  around,  which  clinched  the  thing.  Pick 
ses  he'll  take  the  mummy  fer  his  share,  and  he  gits  the 
fellers  to  take  it  on  east  with  their  plunder  when  they  goes, 
so  no  one  won't  never  suspicion  him  and  connect  him  up 
with  the  deal." 

"I  reckon  you  and  him  would  have  been  chasin'  'bout 
the  country  back  thar  to  this  very  yit,  if  the  fire  hadn't 
cleaned  up  the  outfit,  wouldn't  you?"  inquired  Russel. 

"Sure,"  replied  the  ex-showman;  "we  was  makin'  all 
kinds  of  money  at  it  and  makin'  of  it  easier  than  I  ever  did 
in  all  my  life  before.  But,  say,  when  it  comes  to  makin' 
mummies,  old  Pickerell  and  that  there  one-lung  doctor  had 
'em  old  Pharaoh  fellers  beaten  a  whole  mile." 


& 

o 


JUMPING  AT  CONCLUSIONS 

IT  certainly  seemed  good  to  be  back  on  the  old  range 
again  after  a  six  months'  absence.  As  we  "topped" 
the  last  hill  I  pulled  up  the  team.  Down  in  the  Valley  be- 
low us  the  white  adobe  walls  of  the  ranch  house,  like  some 
desert  light  house,  blazed  through  the  glorious  green  of 
the  cottonwoods  that  hovered  about  it.  To  its  right  a 
brown  circle  marked  the  big  stockade  corral.  A  smooth 
mirror-like  spot  out  in  the  flat  in  front  of  the  house  was 
the  stock-watering  reservoir,  into  which  the  windmill, 
seconded  by  an  asthmatic  little  gas  engine,  pumped  water 
from  the  depths.  Above  it  the  galvanized  iron  sails  of  the 
great  mill  glittered  and  flickered  and  winked  in  the  bright 
sunlight  as  if  to  welcome  us  home.  A  cloud  of  dust  string- 
ing off  into  the  distance  marked  the  trail  where  a  bunch  of 
"broom  tails"  were  scurrying  out  onto  the  range  after  fil- 
ling themselves  at  the  tank  with  water  and  salt. 

Suddenly,  a  gleam  of  color  caught  our  eyes.  It  was 
"Old  Glory"  at  the  top  of  the  tall  pole,  stirred  by  a  little 
gust  of  wind  that  shook  out  its  folds,  the  green  of  the  trees 
making  a  splendid  background.  Evidently  the  boys  were 
expecting  us,  for  the  flag  was  only  run  up  on  holidays,  Sun- 
days, and  when  guests  were  due  to  arrive. 

149 


150        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

A  soft  hand  slipped  quietly  into  mine.  "Be  it  ever  so 
humble,  there's  no  place  like  home,"  she  sang,  and  as  the 
words  of  the  homesick,  world-tired  Payne  came  from  her 
lips,  there  came  into  my  throat  a  great  lump,  my  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  and  to  us  both,  the  sage  brush  plain  shim- 
mering and  baking  in  the  bright  Arizona  sunshine,  those 
brown  rugged  mountains  in  the  distance  and  that  desert 
oasis  in  the  foreground  were  by  far  the  loveliest  thing  we 
had  seen  in  all  our  travels.  The  team,  too,  seemed  to  sense 
our  feelings,  for  they  freshened  up  and  took  us  across  the 
intervening  distance  as  if  they  had  not  already  made  a 
good  forty  miles  from  the  railroad. 

Old  Dad,  the  ranch  cook,  was  at  the  "snorting  post" 
to  greet  us  as  we  pulled  up,  and  we  soon  were  sitting  on 
the  broad  veranda  plying  the  old  rascal  with  questions 
about  the  work,  the  men,  and  all  the  happenings  while  we 
had  been  away;  for  of  all  forlorn,  unsatisfactory  things 
on  earth  the  worst  are  the  letters  written  by  the  average 
cow-puncher  ranch  foreman  concerning  matters  upon  which 
his  absent  boss  has  requested  full  and  frequent  information. 

One  of  the  first  anxious  inquiries  on  the  part  of  the 
madam  was  as  to  the  whereabouts  of  her  Boston  terrier,  a 
bench  show  prize  winner  sent  out  to  her  shortly  before  we 
left.  The  letter  accompanying  the  dog  advised  us  that, 
barring  accidents,  the  animal  should  in  a  few  months  bring 
into  the  world  some  offspring,  which,  considering  its 
parentage,  ought  to  bring  fancy  prices  on  the  dog  market. 

"Where's  Beauty?"  she  asked. 

"I  reckon  she  done  went  off  with  the  boys  this  morning. 
They's  down  to  Walnut  Spring,  buildin'  a  new  corral." 


Jumping  at  Conclusions  151 

"But  didn't  she — er—  hasn't  she — "  She  looked  at  me 
appealingly. 

"Where  are  her  pups  ?"  was  my  blunt  inquiry. 

"Them  pups?"  The  old  man  took  his  pipe  from  his 
jaws.  A  queer  look  flashed  across  his  brown  face;  he 
chuckled  as  if  the  words  brought  up  some  rather  amusing 
recollection.  Now,  old  Dad  was  one  of  the  worst  practical 
jokers  in  the  West.  Nor  did  he  count  the  cost  or  think  of 
the  results  as  long  as  he  could  carry  his  point,  and  fool 
some  one  with  one  of  his  wildly  improbable  yarns.  To  "pick 
a  load"  into  some  innocent  tenderfoot  was  his  most  joyous 
occupation.  I  waited  patiently  for  him  to  recover  from 
the  fit  of  mirth  into  which  my  innocent  question  seemed  to 
have  plunged  him.  There  was  a  look  of  extreme  disgust  on 
the  face  of  the  lady  sitting  nearby. 

"Ye  'member  that  there  young  kid-like  chap  what 
drifted  in  here  last  spring  after  the  steer  gatherin'?"  Again 
that  witless  chuckle. 

Yes,  I  remembered.    We  both  did — the  madam  nodded. 

"Well,  along  about  the  time  them  there  pups  came  into 
this  here  state  of  Arizony" — the  madam's  face  lighted; 
there  were  some  pups  after  all — "the  kid  and  I  was  here  at 
the  ranch  all  alone,  the  whole  outfit  bein'  out  on  the  rodeo, 
an'  we  havin'  been  left  behind  to  watch  the  pasture  fence, 
where  a  bunch  of  yearlin's  was  bein'  weaned.  One  mornin' 
the  kid  busted  into  the  kitchen.  'The  mut's  got  four  purps ! 
Come  an'  look  at  em ;  they's  all  de- formed ! '  ses  he,  almost 
breathless  with  the  news." 

(Business  of  surprise  and  horror  on  part  of  listening 
lady.) 


152        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

"'De-formed?'"  ses  I. 

"  'That's  what  I  sed,'  he  snaps  back  at  me." 

(More  business  of  S.  and  H.  on  part  of  lady;  also 
friend  husband.) 

"I  follers  the  kid  out  to  the  shed  back  of  the  house, 
where  the  dog  had  a  pile  of  ole  saddle  blankets  for  a  bed, 
and  sure  enough  she  had  four  white  faced  brindle  purps 
all  right,  whinin'  an'  sniffin'  just  as  purps  allers  does. 

"  'What's  wrong  with  'em  ?'  says  I,  me  not  seein'  any- 
thing de-formed  about  'em. 

"  'Hell'  ses  he,  'can't  you  see  they's  all  de- formed  ?' 

"  'Search  me,'  ses  I,  lookin'  'em  all  over  carefully. 

"The  kid  picked  up  two  of  'em.  'Lookit  them  tails 
then.'  He  turned  one  of  'em  around.  Now  Beauty  ain't 
got  no  great  shakes  of  a  tail  herself,  but  what  she  has  is 
straight.  'By  Heck!'  ses  I,  seein'  a  chanst  to  have  some 
fun  with  him,  'sure  enough,  they  is  sort  of  de-formed  in 
their  little  ole  colas.  Reckon  they's  no  use  botherin'  to 
raise  'em,  is  they — what  with  their  tails  all  as  crooked  as 
a  gimlet.  Too  bad,  too  bad,'  ses  I,  'fer  the  missus  will  be 
monstrously  disapp'inted  over  it.' 

"  'They's  every  dad  burned  one  of  'em  got  a  watch  eye 
too,  jist  like  that  there  ole  Pinto  hoss  I  rides.'  The  kid's 
sure  worried. 

"  'Wuss  an'  more  of  it,'  I  comes  back  at  him. 

"  'What  we  goin'  to  do  with  'em  ?'  droppin'  the  animiles 
back  into  the  blankets. 

"  'Nothin,'  I  reckon,'  lookin'  straight  down  my  nose, 
'less'n  we  drownds  'em — said  job  not  bean'  one  I'm  actually 
hankerin'  fer.'" 


Jumping  at  Conclusions  153 

(Business  of  fury,  anger  and  indignation,  with  signs 
of  approaching  tears  on  part  of  listening  lady.) 

"You  blithering  old  idiot!"  I  shrieked,  "do  you  mean 
to  say  that  you  loaded  the  kid  with  that  sort  of  a  story 
till  he  went  off  and  drowned  those  valuable  pups  under  the 
mistaken  impression  that  they  were  deformed  and  there- 
fore worthless?"  I  glared  at  him  as  if  to  wither  his  old 
carcass  with  one  look.  (More  of  above  mentioned  business 
by  lady — with  real  tears.) 

"Well" — and  the  old  renegade  emitted  that  infernal 
chuckle  again — "well,  how  should  I  sense  that  he  didn't 
savvy  that  crooked  tails  and  a  glass  eye  were  sure  enough 
signs  of  birth  an'  breedin'  with  them  there  Boston  terriers  ?" 
He  looked  away ;  we  felt  sure  he  dared  not  face  the  wrath 
in  both  our  eyes. 

I  stormed  up  and  down  the  porch  for  a  few  moments, 
speechless.  The  lady  was  registering  every  known  phase 
of  indignation.  Her  voice,  however,  was  silent.  Evidently 
there  are  times  in  her  life  when  words  fail  her.  This  was 
one  of  them. 

"Where's  that  kid?"' I  finally  demanded.  "I  want  to 
have  a  little  heart  to  heart  talk  with  that  Twmbrel  As  for 
you" — and  I  tried  to  look  the  indignation  I  knew  the  madam 
felt — "it  seems  to  me  your  fondness  for  picking  loads  into 
idiots  green  enough  to  be  fooled  by  such  a  gabbling  old  ass 
as  you  are  has  gone  just  about  far  enough.  After  I've 
seen  the  kid,  I'll  talk  to  you  further." 

Old  Dad  was  slowly  and  carefully  reloading  his  pipe. 
From  his  shirt  pocket  he  dug  a  match.  With  most  aggravat- 
ing deliberation  he  struck  it  on  the  door-post  against  which 


154        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

he  leaned,  held  it  over  the  bowl,  gave  several  long  pulls  at 
the  pipe  to  assure  himself  it  was  well  lit  before  he  even 
deigned  to  raise  his  keen  gray  eyes  to  mine.  The  madam's 
face  was  a  study  in  expression.  "Where's  the  kid  ?"  I  really 
thought  he  had  not  heard  my  first  inquiry  as  to  the  where- 
abouts of  that  individual. 

"Where's  he  at?"  with  the  grandest  look  of  innocent 
inquiry  on  his  weather  beaten  face  that  could  possibly  be 
imagined.  For  mere  facial  expression  he  should  be  a  star 
performer  in  some  big  movie  company. 

"Yes !"  I  snapped  out  the  words  as  if  to  annihilate  him. 
"I  want  to  hold  sweet  converse  with  him,  muy  pronto,  sabe?" 

"Well,  he's  vamosed — drifted  yonderly"  and  he  waved 
his  pipe  towards  the  eastern  horizon. 

"Ahead  of  the  sheriff?"  I  never  did  have  much  faith  in 
the  young  gentleman  from  Missouri. 

"Yep — in  a  way  he  was."  Once  more  that  devilish 
chuckle. 

I  saw  the  old  man  evidently  had  a  story  concealed  about 
his  person  and  that,  with  his  usual  contrariness  the  more 
we  crowded  him  the  longer  he  would  be  in  getting  it  out  of 
his  system.  I  dropped  angrily  into  the  porch  swing,  where 
I  could  watch  his  face,  while  the  madam  sat  herself  down 
on  the  steps  of  the  porch  apparently  utterly  oblivious  of 
everything  but  the  sage-dotted  prairie  spread  out  before 
us.  Finally  the  aged  provision  spoiler  began  to  emit  words. 

"The  last  time  the  outfit  shipped  steers  over  at  the  rail- 
road," he  said  slowly,  "the  kid  he  tanked  up  pretty  con- 
sid'able  till  he's  a  feeling  his  oats,  an'  imaginin'  hisself  a 
reg'lar  wild  man  from  Borneo,  and  everything  leading  up 


Jumping  at  Conclusions  155 

to  his  gittin'  into  trouble  before  he  was  many  hours  older. 
Comes  trotting  down  the  sidewalk  old  man  Kates,  the  Justice 
of  the  Peace  who,  on  account  of  his  gittin'  the  fees  in  all 
cases  brought  up  before  him,  was  allers  on  the  lookout  for 
biz.  Also  he  done  set  into  a  poker  game  the  night  before 
and  lose  his  whole  pile,  which  didn't  tend  to  make  him  view 
this  here  world  through  no  very  rosy  specs.  The  kid  comes 
swaggering  along  and  the  two  meets  up  jist  in  front  of  the 
'Bucket  of  Blood'  saloon.  You  know  Kates  he  allers  wears 
a  plug  hat,  one  of  them  there  old  timers  of  the  vintage  of 
'73  or  thereabouts,  an'  the  kid  he  bein'  a  comparative 
stranger  in  these  parts,  and  not  knowin'  who  the  judge  was 
nor  havin'  seen  any  such  headgear  for  some  time,  he  ses 
to  hisself ,  'Right  here's  where  I  gits  action  on  that  sombrero 
grandey  and  he  manages  to  bump  into  the  judge  in  such 
a  way  as  to  knock  off  the  tile,  and  before  it  hits  the  ground 
the  kid  was  filling  it  so  full  of  holes  that  it  looked  like 
some  black  colander. 

"Every  one  came  pouring  out  of  the  saloon  and  nearby 
stores  to  see  what  was  up,  and  the  judge  he  takes  advantage 
of  the  kid's  having  to  stop  and  reload  his  six  pistol,  to 
relieve  hisself  of  some  of  the  most  expressive  and  profane 
language  ever  heard  in  the  burg  before  or  since,  windin' 
up  by  informm'  the  gent  from  ole  Missou  that  he  was  gcin' 
straight  to  his  office  and  swear  out  a  warrant  for  him  and 
send  him  down  to  Yuma  by  the  next  train. 

"When-  the  boys  tells  the  kid  who  he's  been  tamperin' 
with  he  gits  onto  his  hoss  and  tears  outa  town  like  hell 
a-beatin'  tanbark,  he  havin'  no  particular  likin'  for  court 
proceedin's,  owing  to  several  little  happenin's  in  that  line 


156        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

down  on  the  Pecos  in  Texas.  About  a  week  later  the  sheriff 
he  gits  a  tip  that  the  kid's  probably  hangin'  out  at  Deafy 
Morris's  sheep  camp  up  on  Wild  Cat,  so  he  saunters  up 
that  a-way  and  nabs  the  young  gent  as  he's  a  helpin'  Deafy 
fix  up  his  shearin'  pens.  Sheriff  he  sort  of  throws  a  skeer 
into  the  kid,  tellin'  him  Kates  is  liable  to  send  him  up  for 
ten  years  for  assaultin'  the  honor  and  dignity  of  a  J.  P., 
but  the  kid's  mighty  foxy  and  also  plumb  sober  by  that 
time,  and  he  tells  the  sheriff  he's  willing  to  go  back  to  town 
and  take  his  medicine. 

"Next  morning  Deafy  he  ses  as  how  he's  a-goin'  down 
to  town,  and  the  sheriff,  havin'  got  track  of  somebody  else 
he's  a  wantin'  up  on  the  mountain,  and  believin'  the  kid's 
story  about  bein'  willing  to  go  to  town,  he  deputizes  Deafy 
to  take  him  in  and  deliver  him  at  the  'Hoosgow.'* 

"Deafy  he  tells  the  sheriff  he's  not  a  goin'  clean  through 
to  town  that  day,  but  is  a-goin'  to  camp  at  the  Jacob's 
Well,  a  place  about  half  way  down,  on  the  edge  of  the  pines, 
where  he's  arranged  to  meet  up  with  the  camp  rustler  of 
one  of  his  bands  of  sheep  grazin'  in  that  section.  Ever  been 
at  that  there  Jacob's  Well?"  And  the  old  man  looked  at 
me  inquiringly.  I  nodded  affirmatively. 

The  Jacob's  Well  was  located  in  the  center  of  a  very 
large  level  mass  of  sandstone  covering  perhaps  three  or 
four  acres,  with  a  dense  thicket  of  cedar  and  pinon  trees 
all  about  it.  It  was  a  fairly  round  hole  about  five  feet 
wide  and  perhaps  ten  deep,  bored  down  into  the  sandstone 
formation  either  by  human  agency  or  some  peculiar  action 
of  nature.  The  lay  of  the  rocks  all  about  it  was  such  as 

"Jusgado — The  prisoner's  dock  in  a  Spanish  criminal  court. 


Jumping  at  Conclusions  157 

to  form  a  regular  watershed,  so  that  the  natural  drainage 
from  the  rain  and  snow  kept  it  nearly  filled  almost  all  the 
year  round. 

Just  what  made  this  well  was  a  moot  question  in  the 
country.  A  scientific  investigator  promptly  put  it  down 
to  the  action  of  hard  flint  rocks  lying  in  a  small  depression 
and  rolled  about  by  the  wind  until  they  dug  a  little  basin 
in  the  rock,  then  the  water  collecting  in  it  continued  the 
attrition  until,  finally,  after  what  may  have  been  ages,  the 
well  was  the  result.  My  private  opinion  was  that  it  was 
the  work  of  prehistoric  or  even  modern  Indians  who,  wish- 
ing to  secure  a  supply  of  water  at  this  particular  point, 
possibly  for  hunting  purposes,  formed  the  hole  by  fire.  A 
large  fire  was  built  upon  the  rock,  then  when  at  a  white 
heat  water  was  thrown  upon  it,  causing  the  stone  to  flake 
and  crack  so  it  could  easily  be  removed.  This  was  a  slow 
process,  of  course,  but  having  myself  once  seen  a  party  of 
Apache  squaws  by  the  same  primitive  means  remove  over 
half  of  a  huge  boulder  that  lay  directly  in  the  line  of  an 
irrigating  ditch  they  were  digging,  and  which  they  other- 
wise could  not  get  around,  I  am  convinced  the  scientific 
person  missed  the  true  methods  employed  to  excavate  the 
hole. 

However,  without  regard  to  its  origin,  the  well  was  a 
fine  camping  place,  for  water  was  scarce  in  that  region 
and  there  was  always  good  grass  for  the  horses  near  it. 
The  old  man  rambled  on. 

"Deafy  he  gits  a  poor  start  next  mornin'  'count  of  a 
pack  mule  what  insisted  on  buckin'  the  pack  off  a  couple  of 
times  and  scatterin'  the  load  rather  promisc'ous-like  over 


158        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

the  landscape,  an'  by  the  time  they  reached  the  well  it  was 
plumb  dark.  They  unsaddles  and  hobbles  their  bosses  out, 
and  then  Deafy  he  sets  to  work  buildin'  a  fire,  tellin'  the 
kid  to  take  his  saddle  rope  and  the  coffee  pot  and  git  some 
water.  The  kid  he's  never  been  there  afore,  but  Deafy 
tells  him  the  well's  only  about  a  hundred  feet  from  where 
they  unpacked,  so  he  moseys  out  into  the  dark  lookin'  for 
the  well,  his  rope  in  one  hand,  the  camp  coffee  pot  in 
'tother,  the  idee  bein'  to  let  the  pot  down  into  the  well  with 
the  rope. 

"It  were  sure  dark  in  them  trees,  and  the  kid  he's  a 
blunderin'  and  stumblin'  along,  a-cursin'  the  world  by 
sections,  when  all  to  once  he  stepped  off  into  fresh  air,  and 
the  next  thing  he  knows  he's  a  standin'  at  the  bottom  of 
the  well  in  about  four  or  five  feet  of  ice-cold  water,  and 
him  a-still  hangin'  onto  the  rope  and  pot  with  a  death  grip. 
Took  him  about  five  minutes  to  git  his  breath  and  realize 
he  done  found  the  well  all  rightee,  and  then  he  sets  up  a 
squall  like  a  trapped  wildcat.  He  ain't  forgot,  neither, 
that  Deafy  ain't  likely  to  hear  him,  the  ole  man  bein' 
deafer  than  a  rock;  so  after  hollerin'  a  while  and  gittin' 
no  results  he  stops  it  and  begins  cussin'  jist  to  relieve  his 
mind  and  help  keep  him  from  shakin'  all  his  teeth  outen 
his  head  account  o'  shiverin'  so  blamed  hard. 

"Up  on  top  Deafy  he's  busy  startin'  a  fire  and  openin' 
up  the  packs  gittin'  ready  to  cook  supper.  The  kid  not 
bein'  back  with  the  water  yit,  and  he  bein'  obliged  to  have 
water  fer  bread  makin'  purposes,  Deafy  finally  decides  the 
kid's  gone  and  got  hisself  lost  out  there  in  the  dark,  and 
so  he  takes  a  pasear  out  that  a-way  huntin'  fer  him.  The 


Jumping  at  Conclusions  159 

ole  man's  a  hollerin'  and  a  trompin'  through  the  cedars 
an'  rocks,  thinkin'  more  how  much  his  wool's  a-goin'  to 
fetch  than  anything  else,  when  he  thinks  he  hears  someone 
a-callin'.  He  turns  to  listen,  gits  a  little  more  sound  in 
his  ears,  takes  a  step  or  two  in  its  direction,  and,  kerslop, 
he's  into  that  there  well  hole,  square  on  top  of  the  young 
gent  from  'ole  Missou.'  Say,  the  things  them  two  fellers 
sed  to  each  other,  an'  both  at  the  same  time,  most  cracked 
the  walls  of  the  hole." 

Dad  wiped  his  eyes  with  the  heel  of  his  fat  hand. 

"Talk  about  your  Kilkenny  cats,"  he  continued,  "they 
wan't  in  it  with  them  two  pore  devils  down  in  that  cold 
water.  Finally,  they  both  run  out  of  mouth  ammunition 
an'  set  to  work  to  figger  out  how  they  was  goin'  to  git  outen 
the  well.  It  was  too  wide  to  climb  out  of  by  puttin'  a  foot 
on  each  side  and  coonin'  up  the  walls  like  a  straddle  bug, 
an'  it  was  mostly  too  deep  for  either  of  'em  to  reach  the 
top  with  their  hands.  So  they  mighty  soon  agrees  be- 
tween 'em  that  there's  but  one  way  to  git  out,  an'  that's 
fer  one  of  'em  to  stand  on  'tother's  shoulder  so's  to  git  a 
grip  on  the  edge,  pull  hisself  out,  an'  then  help  his  shiverin', 
shakin'  amigo  what's  down  in  the  hole  onto  terry  firmy. 
Bein'  a  foot  taller  than  Deafy,  Bob  agrees  that  the  old  man 
can  climb  onto  his  shoulders  an'  git  out  first.  But  Deafy, 
he's  heavy  on  his  feet,  an'  bein'  sixty  years  old  an'  none  too 
spry,  he  cain't  seem  to  make  the  riffle  to  git  onto  the  kid's 
back,  so  he  finally  gives  it  up,  an'  lets  the  kid  have  a  try  at 
it.  The  kid  he's  soon  on  Deafy's  shoulders,  an'  one  jump 
an'  he's  on  top. 

"Meantime  the  kid  he's  been  doin'  some  powerful  hard 


160        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

thinkin*.  He  ain't  hankerin'  after  a  close-up  view  of  that 
there  indignant  judge  down  in  town.  The  sheep  man  he's 
got  a  monstrous  fine  hoss,  a  new  Heiser  saddle,  an'  a  jim 
dandy  pack  mule  and  outfit,  while  his  own  hoss  an'  saddle 
ain't  nothin'  much  to  brag  on.  He  knows  the  sheep  man's 
dead  safe  where  he's  at  till  some  one  comes  to  help  him 
out,  which  will  be  when  his  camp  rustler  arrives  on  the 
scene,  which  may  be  in  an  hour  an'  may  be  in  ten  minutes. 
Meantime,  bein'  a  cow-puncher  bred  and  born  on  the  Pecos, 
he  ain't  lovin'  a  sheep  person  any  too  well,  so  he  makes  up 
his  mind  he  jist  as  well  die  for  an'  ole  sheep  as  a  lamb,  and 
within  ten  minutes  he's  hittin'  the  trail  for  New  Mexico 
a  straddle  of  Deafy's  hoss  an'  saddle,  leadin'  his  pack  mule, 
with  a  bully  good  pack  rig  onto  his  back. 

"Also  the  pore  old  feller  down  in  the  well  is  a  holdin' 
up  his  hands  expectin'  every  minute  the  kid  will  reach  down 
an'  help  him  out;  incidentally,  as  far  as  his  chatterin' 
teeth  will  let  him,  doin'  some  mighty  fancy  cussin'  along 
broad  an'  liberal  lines." 

Dad  stopped  a  moment  to  light  his  pipe.  My  curiosity 
could  wait  no  longer. 

"What  happened  to  Deafy  and  how  did  he  get  out?" 
burst  from  my  eager  lips." 

Once  again  that  chuckle.  "Seems  he  tole  the  camp 
rustler  to  meet  him  there  that  night,  but  the  paisano  was 
late  gittin'  his  sheep  bedded  down  on  account  of  a  bear 
skeerin'  of  'em  just  about  sundown,  so  he  didn't  git  round 
till  the  kid  had  done  been  gone  for  two  hours.  Even  then 
he  might  not  V  found  him,  for  the  fire  was  all  out  an'  it 
was  too  dark  to  see  much,  but  the  ole  man  he  had  his  six 


Jumping  at  Conclusions  161 

shooter  with  him  when  he  started  in  to  bathe,  also  about 
forty  beans  in  his  catridge  belt.  Knowin'  mighty  well  his 
only  hope  was  in  drawin'  some  one's  attention  with  his 
shootin',  he  was  mighty  economical  with  his  beans,  only 
shootin'  about  onc't  every  five  minutes.  The  herder  he 
hears  him,  runs  the  sound  down,  an'  finds  his  ole  boss  a 
soakin'  in  the  well,  him  bein'  jist  about  ready  to  cash  in  his 
chips,  he's  that  numbed  and  chilled." 

"And  the  kid?"  gasped  the  lady  listener. 

"Oh,  he  done  got  clean  away  over  the  line  into  New 
Mexico  and  they  ain't  never  got  no  track  of  him  to  this 
very  yit." 

We  heard  a  raucous  squeak  from  the  corral  back  of 
the  house,  indicating  the  opening  of  one  of  the  heavy  pole 
gates.  Evidently  the  boys  had  come  in.  I  was  just  rising 
from  my  seat  in  the  swing,  when  from  around  the  corner 
of  the  house  dashed  a  brindle  Boston  terrier,  followed  by 
four  crazy  pups  about  two  months  old.  The  mother  barked 
a  joyous  welcome  to  the  madam,  to  whom  she  flew  and  in 
whose  arms  she  found  a  warm  reception.  I  turned  to  the 
cook.  That  same  aggravating  chuckle  again. 

"But  you  told  us  they  were  drowned"  was  the  only 
thing  the  amazed  and  perplexed  woman  could  find  words 
to  utter. 

The  old  reprobate  was  gazing  into  the  bowl  of  his  pipe 
as  if  in  its  depths  he  had  found  something  extremely  in- 
teresting. I  began  to  see  a  light. 

"You  miserable  old  hot  air  artist!"  I  said.  "You 
picked  a  load  into  us  the  very  first  hour  after  we  landed 
on  the  ranch,  didn't  you?  You've  been  humbugging  us 


162        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

all  this  time,  haven't  you?"     I  tried  hard  to  be  fiercely 
indignant. 

"You  fooled  your  own  selves,"  he  snickered,  "fer  I  never 
tole  you  them  there  pups  was  drownded;  you  jist  nachelly 
jumped  at  it  of  your  own  accord,  an'  seein'  as  how  you'd 
find  it  out  anyhow  when  the  boys  came  in,  I  jist  let  it  run 
along." 


LOST  IN  THE  PETRIFIED 
FOREST* 

WHEN  the  stockholders  of  the  "Lazy  H"  outfit  met 
annually  in  solemn  conclave  to  receive  the  report 
of  their  range  manager  and  find  out  how  much  more  the 
expenses  for  the  year  had  been  than  the  receipts,  they  called 
it  the  "Montezuma  Cattle  Company,"  but  as  their  brand 
was  an  H  lying  down  on  the  sides  of  their  cattle  thus,  (z  ) 
everyone  on  the  range  called  it  the  "Lazy  H"  outfit. 

We  were  in  the  Lazy  H  winter  horse  camp  looking  after 
a  hundred  and  seventy-five  cow-ponies  that  had  seen  a  hard 
summer's  work,  and  the  job  was  a  snap.  Two  men  rode 
out  every  morning  and  saw  that  none  of  the  animals  strayed 
too  far,  bringing  them  all  in  for  water  down  the  trail  in  the 
canon,  salting  them  once  a  week,  and  keeping  a  sharp  look- 
out for  horse  thieves,  both  white  and  Indian. 

The  camp  was  a  dugout  in  the  side  of  a  hill,  part  logs, 
part  hill,  with  a  dirt  roof  a  foot  thick.  A  grand  fireplace 
in  one  end  served  alike  for  heating  and  cooking  purposes, 
and  at  night  with  a  fire  of  pine  knots  you  could  lie  in  the 
"double  decker"  bunks  and  read  as  if  the  place  was  lighted 
with  an  arc  lamp.  There  was  a  heavy  door  in  the  end, 

*By  permission  Overland  Monthly,  San  Francisco,  Calif. 

163 


164        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

while  half  a  dozen  loopholes  cut  in  the  logs  served  for  win- 
dows and  for  defense  if  necessary. 

Two  of  the  boys  were  playing  a  solemn  game  of  "seven- 
up"  to  decide  which  of  them  should  build  the  fire  in  the 
morning,  and  the  balance  were  smoking  or  reading  some 
two-weeks-old  newspapers  that  had  come  out  from  town 
with  the  last  load  of  grub. 

Outside  the  wind  was  whistling  around  the  corner,  and 
the  coyotes,  attracted  by  the  scent  of  a  freshly  killed 
yearling  hanging  in  a  cedar  near  the  dugout,  were  howling 
and  shrieking  like  a  lot  of  school-children  at  play. 

"Just  about  such  a  night  outside  as  the  night  old  man 
Hart's  wife  and  kids  got  lost  two  years  ago,"  remarked 
Peg  Leg  Russel,  who  was  busy  with  leather  strings  and  an 
awl  plaiting  a  fancy  quirt. 

"Didn't  you  help  hunt  for  'em?"  queried  a  voice  from 
one  of  the  bunks. 

"Sure  thing  I  did,"  answered  the  quirt  maker,  "and, 
what's  more,"  he  continued,  "I  hope  I  never  get  another 
such  job  as  long  as  I  live." 

"Tell  us  about  it  Peg  Leg.  You  know  I  was  over  in 
Kansas  looking  after  a  bunch  of  company  steers  that  fall 
and  never  did  get  the  straight  of  it."  The  speaker  turned 
from  his  game  of  solitaire  toward  the  one-legged  cow- 
puncher.  With  his  knife  Russel  clipped  the  end  of  a  leather 
string  from  the  finished  "Turk's  head,"  laid  the  quirt  on 
the  floor  and  rolled  it  back  and  forth  under  the  sole  of  his 
boot  to  give  it  the  proper  "set"  and  finish,  finally  hanging 
it  on  the  wall.  Then  he  filled  and  lighted  his  pipe,  and  after 
a  few  preliminary  puffs,  began  his  story. 


Lost  in  the  Petrified  Forest  165 

"Well,  boys,  that  was  one  of  the  toughest  nights  I've 
seen  in  Arizony.  We  was  camped  up  near  the  'Peterified' 
Forest  on  our  way  back  to  the  headquarter  ranch.  We'd 
been  down  to  the  railroad  with  a  bunch  of  steers,  and 
expected  to  bust  the  outfit  up  for  the  winter  when  we  got 
back  to  the  ranch.  It  were  late  in  November,  an'  you  all 
know  how  everlastin'  cold  it  gits  'long  in  November  an' 
December. 

"Well,  'long  comes  one  of  them  tearin'  howlin'  sand- 
storms 'bout  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  wagon 
boss  camped  us  under  the  lee  of  a  hill  and  wouldn't  go  any 
furder.  And  'twas  well  he  did,  too,  fer  the  wind  blowed  a 
gale,  snow  begin  to  fall,  and  ag'in  sunset  it  was  as  ornery 
a  piece  of  weather  as  I  ever  seen  anywheres.  You  all  know 
wood's  pow'ful  skeerce  up  thar,  too,  and  all  the  cook  had 
was  sage  brush  an'  'chips.' 

"We  put  in  a  mis'able  night.  The  wind  blowed  every 
way,  an'  drifted  sand  an'  snow  into  our  beds  in  spite  of  all 
a  feller  could  do.  Me  and  Sandy,  the  horse-wrangler,  slep' 
together,  an'  Sandy  he  lowed,  he  did,  that  the  Lord  mus' 
have  it  in  fer  us  pore  ignorant  cow-punchers  that  night, 
shore.  About  daylight  I  heard  a  shot,  then  another,  an' 
another.  Everybody  'most  in  camp  waked  up,  an'  Wilson, 
the  wagon  boss,  he  takes  his  six-shooter  an'  fires  a  few  shots 
to  answer  'em. 

"We  all  speculated  as  to  what  it  meant  at  such  a  time, 
an'  Wilson  he  says  he'd  bet  a  yearlin'  ag'in  a  sack  of  ter- 
baccer  that  it  were  some  derned  tenderfoot  bug-hunter 
who'd  been  out  to  the  Petrified  Forest  an'  gone  an'  lost 
hisself,  an'  now  was  a  bellerin'  around  like  a  dogie  calf. 


166        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

The  cook  he  lowed  'twan't  no  bug-hunter,  'cause  that  was 
the  crack  of  a  forty-five,  an'  them  bug-hunter  fellers  gin- 
erally  packed  a  little  short  twenty-two  to  stand  off  the 
Injuns,  an'  we  all  laughed  at  this,  fer  the  night  we  got  the 
steers  shipped  the  cook  went  up  town  an'  got  full  as  a 
goat,  an'  tried  to  run  a  'sandy'  over  a  meek-looking  tender- 
foot, who  wan't  a  harmin'  nobody;  but  he  wan't  near  so 
meek  as  he  looked,  an'  fust  thing  the  cocmero  knowed  he 
war  a  gazin'  in  to  one  of  them  same  little  twenty-twos, 
an'  I'm  blessed  if  the  stranger"  didn't  take  his  forty-five 
away  from  him  an'  turned  him  over  to  the  sheriff  to  cool 
off — but  I  guess  you  all  know  about  that. 

"We  could  soon  hear  the  'chug  chug'  of  a  pony's  feet, 
an'  then  a  voice  a  hollerin'.  We  all  gave  a  yell,  and  in  a 
few  minutes  a  man  named  Hart  rode  into  camp.  We  all 
knowed  him.  He  was  a  sheep  man  with  a  ranch  over  on 
the  'tother  side  of  the  Petrified  Forest.  He  was  nearly 
froze  an'  half  crazy  with  excitment,  an'  'twas  some  minutes 
afore  we  could  git  him  to  tell  what  was  a  hurtin'  him. 

"  'Boys,'  he  says,  'for  God's  sake  git  up  an'  help  me 
find  my  wife  an'  chillun.' 

"An'  then  he  told  us  he  had  been  away  from  his  ranch 
all  the  day  before,  at  one  of  his  sheep  camps  over  on  the 
Milky  Holler.  When  he  left  in  the  mornin'  his  wife  tole 
him  she'd  hitch  up  the  hosses  to  the  buckboard  after  din- 
ner an'  take  the  kids  an'  drive  down  to  the  railroad  station 
an'  git  the  mail,  an'  git  back  in  time  for  supper.  You 
know  it's  'bout  eight  miles  down  to  the  station  at  Carrizo. 

"Comin'  home  at  night  in  the  wust  of  the  storm,  Hart 
had  found  the  shack  empty,  his  wife  not  home  yit  an'  the 


Lost  in  the  Petrified  Forest  167 

bosses  gone.  Thinkin'  that  the  storm  had  kept  'em,  he 
waited  an  hour  or  two,  when  he  got  so  blamed  oneasy  he 
couldn't  wait  no  longer,  but  saddled  up  his  boss  an'  drug 
it  for  the  station.  When  he  got  there  they  told  him  his 
wife  had  left  'bout  an  hour  by  sun,  an'  they  hadn't  seen 
nothin'  of  her  sence,  although  they  had  begged  her  not  to 
start  back,  an'  the  wind  a-blowin'  like  it  was.  'Twas  then 
about  as  dark  as  the  inside  of  a  cow,  and  leavin'  the  men 
at  the  station  to  foller  him,  Hart  struck  out  across  the 
prairie,  ridin'  in  big  circles,  and  tryin',  but  without  no  luck, 
to  cut  some  'sign'  of  the  buckboard  and  bosses.  You  know, 
fellers,  how  them  sandy  mesas  are  about  there,  and,  between 
the  driftin'  sand  and  the  snow,  every  mark  had  been  wiped 
out  slick  and  clean.  Then  he  pulled  his  freight  for  the 
ranch,  thinkin'  mebbeso  she'd  got  back  while  he  were  away ; 
but  nary  a  sign  of  them  was  there  about  the  place.  He 
struck  out  agin,  makin'  big  circles,  and  firm'  his  six- 
shooter  and  hollerin'  like  an  Apache  Injin,  all  the  time  a- 
listenin'  an'  a-prayin'  fer  some  answer.  Then  he  heerd 
our  shots  and  thought  sure  he'd  found  her,  fer  she  always 
carried  a  gun  when  she  went  out  alone,  and  he  jist  hit  the 
high  places  till  he  ran  onto  our  camp  and  he  war  sure 
disappointed  when  he  seen  us  an'  not  her. 

"  'Tain't  no  use  for  to  tell  you  that  we  got  a  move  onto 
ourselves.  You've  all  seen  the  Cimarron  Kid  git  a  move 
on  an'  tear  round  and  just  bust  hisself  to  get  out  to  the 
herd  in  the  mornin'  to  relieve  the  last  guard,  along  in  the 
fall  when  the  boss  was  pickin'  out  men  for  the  winter  work. 
Well,  that  was  the  way  we  all  tore  round,  an'  as  everybody 
kep'  up  a  night  boss  (you  all  know  what  a  crank  that  feller 


168        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

Wilson  was  'bout  night  hosses ;  he'd  make  every  man  keep 
one  up  if  he  had  the  whole  cavyyard  in  a  ten-acre  field), 
we  soon  had  a  cup  of  coffee  into  us  an'  was  ready  to  ride 
slantin'.  Pore  Hart  was  so  nigh  crazy  that  he  couldn't 
say  nothin',  an'  'twas  hard  to  see  a  big,  strong  feller  as 
he  was  all  broke  up  like. 

"By  this  time  'twas  gettin'  daylight  in  the  east  an'  we 
struck  out,  scatterin'  every  way,  but  keepin'  in  sight  an' 
hearin'  of  each  other.  'Bout  two  miles  from  camp  I  ran 
slap  dab  onto  the  buckboard,  with  one  of  the  hosses  tied 
up  to  the  wheel,  an'  'tother  gone.  The  harness  of  the  other 
hoss  laid  on  the  ground,  an'  from  the  sign,  she  had  evidently 
unharnessed  the  gentlest  hoss  of  the  two,  an'  got  on  him, 
with  the  kids,  an'  tried  to  ride  him  bareback.  I  fired  a 
couple  of  shots,  which  brought  some  of  the  other  boys  to 
me,  an'  we  follered  up  the  trail,  step  by  step,  'cause  'twas 
a  hard  trail  to  pick  out,  owin',  as  I  said,  to  the  sand  an' 
snow. 

"Pretty  soon  we  come  to  where  she  had  got  off  the  hoss 
an'  led  him  for  a  ways ;  then  we  found  the  tracks  of  the 
kids;  an'  we  judged  they'd  all  got  so  cold  they  had  to 
walk  to  git  warm ;  an'  all  that  time  my  fingers  an'  ears  was 
tinglin'  an  achin',  they  was  so  cold,  an'  what  was  them  pore 
kids  an'  that  little  woman  goin'  to  do,  when  a  big,  stout 
puncher  like  me  was  shiverin'  an'  shakin'  like  a  old  cow 
under  a  cedar  in  a  norther? 

"Bimeby  we  struck  the  hoss  standin'  there  all  humped 
up  with  the  cold,  the  reins  hooked  over  a  little  sage  bush. 
I  sent  one  of  the  boys  back  with  the  hoss,  an  tole  him  to 
hitch  up  to  the  buckboard  an'  f oiler  on,  fer  I  knowed  shore 


Lost  in  the  Petrified  Forest  169 

we'd  need  it  to  put  their  pore  frozen  bodies  on  when  we 
found  'em. 

"Here  we  saw  signs  where  she'd  tried  to  build  a  fire, 
but,  Lord  A'mighty,  you  know  how  hard  it  is  to  find  any- 
thing to  burn  round  that  there  Petrified  Forest  country, 
an'  she  only  had  three  or  four  matches,  an'  nothin'  to 
make  a  fire  catch  with.  Then  she  started  on  ag'in,  an'  I 
judged  she'd  got  a  star  to  go  by,  'cause  she  kep'  almost 
straight  north  to'ds  the  railroad.  By  the  trail,  she  was 
a-carryin'  the  youngest  kid,  a  boy  'bout  two  years  old,  an' 
leadin'  the  other,  which  was  a  little  gal  'bout  five. 

"Right  here,  fellers,  she  showed  she  was  fit  to  be  the 
wife  of  a  man  livin'  in  such  a  country.  She  knowed  mighty 
well  that  she'd  be  follered,  an'  that  her  trail  would  be  hard 
to  find,  so  what  does  she  do  but  tear  pieces  out  of  the  ging- 
ham skirt  she  had  on,  an'  hang  'em  along  on  a  sage  brush 
here,  an'  a  Spanish  bayonet  there,  so's  we  could  foller 
faster.  When  we  struck  this  sign  an'  seed  what  sh'd  'done, 
one  of  the  boys  says,  says  he,  'Fellers,  ain't  she  a  trump, 
an'  no  mistake'?  An'  so  she  shore  was. 

"We  jist  turned  our  hosses  loose  along  here,  an'  one 
of  us  would  lope  ahead  an'  cut  for  sign,  an'  as  soon  as  he 
found  it,  another  would  cut  in  ahead  of  him,  an'  in  that 
way  we  trailed  her  up,  right  peart.  We  soon  ran  the  trail 
down  to  the  edge  of  the  big  mesa  back  of  the  Carrizo 
station. 

"If  you  remember,  it's  quite  a  cliff  there,  mebbeso  two 
hundred  feet  down;  sort  of  in  steps,  from  two  to  six  feet 
high.  We  seen  where  she  jumped  over  the  fust  ledge  an' 
helped  the  young  ones  down.  She  worked  her  way  down  the 


170        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

rocky  cliff  that  way,  step  by  step,  an'  it  must  'a'  been  a  job, 
too,  in  the  dark,  an'  as  cold  as  she  was.  Two  of  us  went  on 
down  the  cliff,  an'  I  sent  the  other  boys  around  with  the 
hosses,  to  a  break,  where  there  was  a  good  trail. 

"Right  here  I  began  to  think  that  p'raps  she's  been 
saved,  after  all.  'Twas  only  a  mile  from  the  foot  of  the 
mesa  to  the  station  at  Carrizo,  an'  in  plain  sight  from 
where  we  were. 

"Me  an'  Little  Bob,  who  was  with  me,  was  so  sure  that 
she  was  all  right  that  we  quit  follerin'  the  trail  an'  jist 
got  down  the  cliff  anywhere  we  could.  When  we  got  to 
the  bottom  an'  clear  of  the  rocks,  we  set  out  to  cut  for  her 
trail  ag'in,  when  Little  Bob  says,  says  he,  'There  she  is, 
Jack.' 

"Lord,  how  my  heart  jumped  into  my  mouth.  Seemed 
as  if  I  could  most  taste  it.  I  looks  where  Bob  was  a-p'intin', 
and  shore  enough,  there  she  were  a-sittin'  on  a  rock  with 
the  little  boy  in  her  lap,  an'  the  little  girl  a-leanin'  up  ag'in 
her  an'  a-lookin'  into  her  face. 

"We  both  gave  a  yell  an'  started  to'ds  her,  but  she 
never  paid  no  'tention  to  us,  which  seemed  to  me  mighty 
queer  like.  But  we  were  a  little  to  one  side  of  her,  an'  I 
thought  mebbe  she  were  so  tired  she  didn't  notice  us.  Bob 
he  got  up  to  her  fust,  an'  walked  up  an'  put  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder  to  shake  her,  but,  fellers,  you  all  know  how  'twas, 
the  pore  little  woman  an'  the  two  young  ones  were  dead. 

"Little  Bob  was  so  skeert  that  he  couldn't  do  nothin', 
but  I  fired  all  the  shots  in  my  six-shooter,  an'  the  balance 
of  the  outfit  soon  came  up  to  us. 

"Wilson  he  had  a  little  more  savvy  than  the  rest  of  us, 


Lost  in  the  Petrified  Forest  171 

an'  rode  back  an'  met  pore  Hart,  who  had  got  off  to  one 
side,  an'  tells  him  sort  o'  kindly  like,  what  we'd  found ;  an' 
I  reckon  that  Jim  never  had  no  harder  job  in  all  his  life. 

"Hart  says,  says  he,  'Jim,  old  man,  you  take  'em  inter 
town  as  tenderly  as  you  kin,  an'  make  all  the  arrangements 
for  the  funeral,  an'  I'll  follow  you  in  tonight.' 

"  'Course  Jim  swore  we'd  all  do  everything  we  could, 
an'  Hart  rode  off  to'ds  his  ranch  without  comin'  nigh  the 
place  where  his  little  family  was  a  restin'  so  peaceful  an' 
quiet. 

"Say,  fellers,  that  was  the  pitifullest  sight  I  ever  seed, 
an'  I've  seed  some  sad  work  in  the  days  when  old  Geronimo 
an'  his  murderin'  gang  of  government  pets  used  to  range 
all  over  the  country. 

"  'Twas  easy  enuff  to  read  the  whole  thing  now.  She'd 
come  to  the  edge  of  the  mesa  an'  seen  the  lights  in  the 
station  house,  for  they  get  up  'bout  four  o'clock  every 
mornin'  to  get  breakfast  for  the  section  men.  Climbin' 
down  the  cliff  had  used  her  up,  an'  knowin'  she  was  so  clost 
to  help,  she  had  set  down  on  a  big  flat  rock  at  the  bottom 
to  rest  a  minute  before  starting  to  walk  the  mile  from  the 
foot  of  the  mesa  to  the  station.  To  set  down,  as  cold  and 
tired  as  she  was,  meant  sleep,  an'  to  sleep  was  shore  death 
that  night,  an'  she  went  to  sleep  an'  never  woke  up  no  more. 

"The  little  boy  was  cuddled  up  ag'in  her  under  her 
shawl,  with  the  peacefulest  look  on  his  little  face  you  ever 
see,  an'  the  little  girl  was  a-leanin'  on  her  lap  an'  a-lookin' 
up  into  her  face,  with  the  big  tears  frozen  on  her  cheeks, 
an'  so  natural  that  it  was  hard  to  believe  she  was  dead. 

"One  of  the  boys  went  over  to  the  station  an'  got  two 


172        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

wagon  sheets  and  some  blankets,  an'  when  the  buckboard 
came  we  rolled  'em  up  as  carefully  an'  softly  as  we  could. 
They  was  so  stiff  we  had  to  leave  the  little  feller  where  he 
was,  but  the  girl  we  rolled  up  separate. 

"Now,  say,  boys,  that  was  a  hard  thing  to  do,  for  a 
bunch  of  rough  cow-punchers,  if  you  hear  me.  Hookey 
Jim  he'd  been  through  a  yellow  fever  year  down  in  Mem- 
phis once,  an'  he  was  more  used  to  such  things,  so  he  sort 
of  bossed  the  job. 

"I  ain't  ashamed  to  say  I  bawled  like  a  baby,  fellers. 
Mrs.  Hart  was  awful  good  to  us  boys,  even  if  her  husband 
was  a  sheep  man.  No  puncher  ever  went  there  without 
gettin'  a  good  square  meal,  no  matter  when  it  was;  an' 
when  Curly  Joe  got  sick  over  at  the  'Rail  N'  ranch,  she 
jist  made  the  boys  fetch  him  over  to  her  place,  an'  she 
nussed  him  like  his  own  mammy  would  have  done. 

"After  we  got  'em  packed  on  the  buckboard,  Wilson 
sent  the  rest  of  the  outfit  back  to  camp,  an'  him  an'  me 
rode  on  into  town,  leavin'  Shorty  French  to  drive  the  team 
in.  We  met  everybody  in  town  out  on  the  road  to  hunt 
for  Mrs.  Hart,  for  the  word  had  got  round  that  she  had 
got  lost;  an'  everyone  that  could  leave  had  turned  out  on 
the  search. 

"  'Twas  a  sorrowful  place  that  day,  an*  the  next. 
Everybody  in  town  knew  an'  loved  the  little  woman,  an' 
her  awful  death  made  it  seem  more  pitiful  an'  sad.  They 
made  one  coffin  an'  put  her  an'  the  two  chillun  into  it,  one 
on  each  arm,  an'  they  looked  so  sweet  an'  peaceful,  like 
they  was  only  asleep — an',  anyway,  that's  what  he  read 
from  the  book  at  the  grave — that  they  was  only  asleep. 


Lost  in  the  Petrified  Forest  173 

"You  fellers  all  know  how  everybody  in  town  was  at 
the  funeral,  an'  how  one  of  the  men  in  town  had  to  say  a 
little  prayer  at  the  grave,  'cause  there  wasn't  no  parson, 
they  all  bein'  away  off  in  Afriky  an'  Chiney  a-prayin'  an' 
a-singin'  with  niggers  an'  Chinees,  an'  not  havin'  no  time 
to  tend  to  their  own  kind  of  people  to  home,  who  p'raps 
needed  prayin'  for  jist  as  much  as  the  heathen  in  Chiney. 

"Then  two  sweet  little  girls  sung  a  hymn  'bout  'Nearer 
my  God  to  Thee,'  an'  when  they  got  to  the  second  verse 
everybody  was  a-cryin'  an'  the  little  girls  jist  busted  out 
too,  an'  couldn't  finish  the  song  for  a  long  time. 

"An',  boys,  that's  about  all  there  is  to  tell." 

I  glanced  around  the  dugout.  The  fire  had  burned  low 
and  I  guess  the  most  of  them  were  glad;  for,  in  the  un- 
certain light,  I  could  see  moisture  on  more  than  one  sun- 
burned cowboy  cheek,  and  my  own  eyes  were,  as  one  of 
them  quaintly  put  it,  "jist  a-spillin'  clean  over  with  tears." 


D 


CAMEL  HUNTIN'* 

I  ID  any  of  yez  ever  go  camel  huntin'?"  asked  the 
cook,  who  had  been  listening  to  some  tales  of  bear 
and  lion  hunting  that  had  been  going  the  rounds  of  the 
men  about  the  chuck  wagon. 

"Camel  hunting?"  cried  the  horse-wrangler,  a  look  of 
astonishment  on  his  face.  "What  on  earth  do  you  mean 
by  camel  hunting?  We  ain't  none  of  us  ever  been  to 
Afriky." 

"Camel  huntin'  is  jest  what  I  said,"  replied  the  knight 
of  the  dish-rag,  flourishing  that  useful  article  in  the  air  as 
he  mopped  off  the  lid  of  the  chuck  box. 

"Do  you  mean  sure  enough  camels,  camels  with  humps 
on  'em  like  what  we  seen  at  the  circus  in  Albuquerque  las' 
fall?"  queried  another  doubting  one. 

"Faith  an'  I  do  that,"  answered  the  cook;  "an'  what's 
more,  I  didn't  have  to  go  to  no  Afriky  to  hunt  'em  neither." 

"Whar  did  ye  find  any  camels  hereabouts,  'ceptin  in  a 
circus?"  asked  "Tex,"  an  old-time  puncher  who  had  fol- 
lowed the  chuck  wagon  for  thirty  years. 

"Right  here  in  Arizony,  me  lads,"  said  the  cook,  with 
an  affirmative  nod  of  his  red  head. 

*By  permission  The  Breeder's  Gazette,  Chicago,  111. 

174 


Camel  Huntin*  175 

"Gee !"  and  the  wagon  boss  looked  incredulous.  "Camels 
in  Arizony!  Who  ever  heard  tell  of  any  of  them  critters 
down  this-a-way?" 

Pat  by  this  time  had  finished  his  after-dinner  work,  and 
while  the  team  horses  were  eating  their  grain,  he  sat  down 
to  peel  a  panful  of  potatoes  in  readiness  for  the  evening 
meal. 

"Tell  us  about  them  there  camels,  Pat,"  begged  one  of 
the  boys. 

"Sure,"  with  a  grin,  "I  don't  mind  givin'  yez  a  little 
bit  of  enlightenment  on  the  subject  of  camels,  seein'  as 
none  of  yez  ever  heern  tell  of  thim  before  now.  When  I 
first  came  to  Arizony,  ye  know  I  was  a  sojer  in  the  regular 
army,  in  the  Sixth  Cavalry,  the  gallopin'  Sixth,  they  called 
it  in  them  days.*5 

"Aw,  give  us  a  rest,  Pat,  about  your  army  days,  an' 
tell  us  about  them  camels,"  for  the  Galloping  Sixth  and  its 
adventures  was  an  old  story  to  the  boys. 

"Well,"  he  resumed,  "we  was  scoutin'  down  the  Santy 
Cruz  valley,  west  of  Too-sawn,  a  lookin'  for  old  Geronimo 
and  his  murderin'  gang.  One  night  we  was  camped  in  a 
little  openin'  in  the  mesquites,  wid  guards  out  on  all  sides 
ag'in  a  surprise,  when  somethin'  stampeded  every  hoss  in 
the  herd  an'  left  us  plumb  afoot,  exceptin'  them  the  guards 
was  a-ridin'.  Next  morning  when  the  captain  asked  the 
sargint  of  the  guard  what  made  'em  stampede,  he  sort  of 
grinned  an'  looked  sheepish  like. 

"  'Captain,'  ses  he,  'ye'll  not  be  after  thinkin'  me  a  dirty 
liar,  but,  sor,  by  the  blissid  Saint  Patrick  I'd  be  willin'  to 
swear  that  the  animiles  that  set  them  there  crazy  hosses  off 


176        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

like  a  bunch  of  skeered  sheep  were  nothin'  less  nor  camels — 
camels,  sor,  with  two  humps  an'  long  necks  on  'em ;  the  same 
as  I  be  seein'  in  the  maynageries  whin  I  were  a  lad. 

"  'Camels,  sargint?'  sez  the  captain,  lookin'  sort  o' 
puzzled  like.  'Do  ye  surely  mean  what  ye  be  a-sayin'  ?' 

"  'That  I  do,  sor,'  sez  the  sargint,  'an'  the  men  on  guard 
with  me  will  bear  me  out — at  least  them  that  glimpsed 
them.' 

"Then  the  captain  he  sort  of  grins  an'  sez.  'That's 
all  right,  sargint;  I'd  plumb  forgot  there  used  to  be  a  lot 
of  camels  herabouts  on  these  deserts,  an'  'twas  probably 
some  of  thim.' 

Then  the  captain,  he  bein'  a  fine  old  sojer  man,  with 
no  frills  or  grand  airs  with  the  men  when  out  on  a  scout, 
tells  the  sargint  that  before  the  war  Jeff  Davis  (that 
same  Jeff,  by  the  way,  what  was  Prisident  of  the  Confi- 
deracy,  he  bein'  then  Secretary  of  War)  gits  a  fancy  that 
camels  was  the  very  trick  for  usin'  out  West,  for  packin' 
stuff  for  the  troops.  So  old  Jeff  he  gets  Uncle  Sam  to 
send  'way  off  to  Afriky  an'  import  a  lot  of  thim  an'  sint 
them  out  to  Texas  an'  Arizony  on  the  deserts. 

"But  the  packers  couldn't  get  used  to  them,  an'  besides, 
they  stampeded  ev'ry  horse  an'  mule  in  the  entire  southwest 
with  their  queer  ways  an'  ungainly  looks.  So  one  day  the 
quartermaster  at  Yuma  he  turns  out  a  lot  of  thim  with  a 
'Good-bye  to  yez,  an'  God  bless  yez,  an'  here's  hopin'  we 
niver  meet  ag'in,'  slappin'  the  nearest  one  with  a  halter 
shank  to  sort  of  hasten  him  on  his  way.  They  took  to  the 
deserts  like  a  duck  to  water,  an'  the  captain  said  'twas 
doubtless  one  of  thim  that  the  sargint  seed." 


Camel  Huntin*  177 

"How  about  him  tin'  of  'em,  Pat?"  asked  an  interested 
listener.  "You  sure  didn't  stop  to  hunt  camels  then,  did 
you?" 

"Hunt  camels  thin!"  snorted  the  cook  with  disgust. 
"By  the  powers  'twas  precious  little  opportunity  we  had  for 
camel  huntin'  thim  days,  with  old  Geronimo  onto  his  job 
ev'ry  day  from  sun-up  to  dark.  No,  my  son,  'twas  ten 
years  or  more  later  whin  I  went  camel  huntin'.  I  was 
workin'  for  the  M.  C.  outfit,  up  to  Williams,  an'  they  had 
a  contract  to  deliver  some  beef  steers  to  the  Injun  agent 
at  the  Moharvey  reservation  down  below  the  Needles  on 
the  Big  Colorado.  We'd  had  an  elegant  summer  for  rain, 
an'  the  desert  was  covered  with  grass  an'  water.  So  the 
old  man  decides  to  trail  them  across  the  country,  an'  we 
takes  the  herd  an'  struck  off  down  the  mountain  towards 
the  head  of  the  big  Chino  Valley  an'  then  on  west  till  we 
struck  the  Bill  William's  fork  of  the  Big  Colorado  down 
which  we  was  to  drift  till  we  reached  the  main  river. 

"We  started  with  a  young  moon,  an'  by  the  time  we 
hit  the  Bill  William's  fork  the  job  of  night  herding  was 
a  plumb  picnic,  so  far  as  the  steers  went.  We  had  them 
all  as  do-cile  as  a  bunch  of  trained  pigs;  an'  what  with 
the  grand  feed  to  handle  them  on  we'd  never  yet  lost  a 
single  one  of  them  nor  had  a  stampoodle  of  any  kind. 

"We  bedded  them  oxen  down  one  night  in  a  great  open 
valley  after  an  easy  day's  drive.  There  was  only  five  of 
us,  four  with  the  steers,  an'  me,  cook  an'  horse- wrangler, 
we  havin'  everything  on  four  pack  mules,  which  I  drove 
with  the  remuda. 

"That  night  Billy  St.  Joe  asked  me  if  I  wouldn't  take 


178        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

his  guard  for  him,  he  bein'  about  sick  all  day  with  nu- 
ralgy.  So  when  I  was  called  along  about  midnight  to 
spoon  them  for  two  hours  I  jumps  an'  was  soon  joggin' 
around  the  bunch,  which  was  all  a-lyin'  down  as  decent  as 
one  could  wish  fer.  'Twere  hard  to  keep  awake,  an'  I 
reckon  I  must  'a'  been  a-noddin'  in  the  saddle,  for,  the 
first  thing  I  knowed  there  was  a  snort  an'  a  cracklin'  of 
horns  an'  hocks,  an'  away  went  me  steers  like  the  very  old 
divil  himself  was  behind  them. 

"I  pulled  meself  together,  slapped  old  Shoestring  down 
the  hind  leg  with  me  quirt,  an'  put  spurs  after  them,  hopin' 
to  turn  them.  Old  Shoestring  snorted  an'  kept  them  sharp 
ears  of  his  workin'  an'  looking'  back  over  his  shoulder  like, 
as  if  he  was  a-feered  too.  I  hadn't  been  sidin'  them  fer 
more  than  a  hundred  yards  when,  hearin'  a  snortin'  an'  a 
gruntin'  behind  me,  I  takes  a  look  meself  over  me  shoulder, 
an'  such  a  sight  as  me  eyes  did  get. 

"  'Twas  sure  no  wonder  them  steers  was  a-runnin  away, 
fer  right  behind  us  was  three  great  figures  with  long  necks 
an*  humps  on  their  backs  like  two  water  kegs  a-settin'  up 
there.  They  wasn't  gallopin',  nayther  was  they  trottin', 
but  jist  a-shufflin'  along  over  the  ground  like  ghosties,  an' 
every  once  in  a  little  while  one  of  them  gives  a  grunt  an' 
a  gurgle  which  sent  them  oxen  wild  with  terror.  Hangin' 
to  these  creatures  was  long  strings  of  somethin'  more  like 
a  lot  of  ragged  clothes  than  anything  else,  an'  what  with 
the  flutterin'  an'  wavin'  they  resembled  a  lot  of  animated 
scarecrows. 

"When  we  first  set  out  on  our  race  with  thim  ugly  divils 
a-follerin'  of  us,  the  three  night  horses  tied  up  in  camp, 


Camel  Huntin*  179 

takin'  wan  look  an'  sniff  of  them  teeterin'  figgers  a-puffin' 
an'  a-gruntin'  in  our  rear,  jist  quit  the  flats  wid  the  rest 
of  the  live  stock,  an'  as  we  tore  along  we  picked  up  every 
mother's  son  of  the  other  horses,  them  all  bein'  foot-loose, 
an'  a-hangin'  round  with  the  pack  mules. 

"By  the  blissed  saints,  but  me  an'  that  Shoestring 
horse  was  havin'  a  lovely  ole  time  of  it  all  by  ourselves, 
for,  with  the  night  horses  gone,  thim  lads  back  in  camp 
had  nothin'  to  do  but  set  there  an'  lave  it  to  me  to  hang  an' 
rattle  with  them.  Thim  shufflin'  monsters  behind  didn't 
seem  to  want  to  git  past  us,  but  jist  kep'  at  the  heels  of 
the  drags,  an'  it's  mesilf's  a-tellin'  ye  that  every  toime  I'd 
take  wan  hasty  glimpse  of  thim  'twould  be  the  cold  chills 
I'd  be  after  havin',  an'  me  a-cursin'  the  night  I  ever  took 
Billy  St.  Joe's  guard  fer  him. 

"What  wid  the  fear  in  his  heart,  an'  good  work  wid  me 
'pet  makers',  I  makes  out  to  git  old  Shoestring  up  clost  to 
the  leaders.  I'd  also  managed  to  get  me  slicker  untied 
from  the  back  of  me  saddle  an'  was  wavin'  it  in  their  faces, 
hopin'  by  thim  means  to  git  the  bunch  turned  an'  millin', 
an'  maybe  thim  lost  sowls  that  was  a-follerin'  us  wud  leave 
us  in  peace  an'  quiet. 

"Thim  three  saddle  horses  a-runnin'  an'  rompin'  an' 
snortin'  in  the  midst  of  the  steers  wasn't  helpin'  matters, 
ayther.  Iv'ry  toime  wan  of  the  stake  ropes  what  was  a- 
draggin'  after  thim  struck  the  hocks  of  a  steer  he'd  give 
a  wild  beller  of  fright,  and  thin  the  entire  bunch  wud  put 
on  a  few  extra  bursts  of  speed,  an'  thim  preambulatin' 
scarecrows  behind  wud  do  a  little  more  gruntin'  an'  gurg- 
lin'  an'  make  matters  all  the  worse. 


180        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

"'Bout  this  time  old  Shoestring,  bein'  occupied  princi- 
pally wid  lookin'  over  his  shoulder  an'  takin'  stock  of  those 
wanderin'  hoboes  behind,  failed  to  notice  a  big  ole  badger 
hole  like  an  open  coal  hole  in  a  city  sidewalk,  an'  steps  wan 
of  his  front  legs  square  into  it  an'  turns  a  hand-spring, 
landin'  in  a  bunch  of  cholla  cactus,  wid  me  under  him. 
Whin  I  come  to  my  sinsis,  which  was  some  minutes  after,  I 
finds  meself  afoot  on  the  desert  an'  it  just  a-gittin'  gray 
in  the  east. 

"Barrin'  a  big  gash  across  me  cheek,  where  I  digs  me 
face  into  the  ground  as  me  old  Shoestring  lit,  I  was  none 
the  worse  for  the  fall,  'ceptin'  of  coorse  a  large  an'  illigant 
assortment  of  cholla  barbs  in  me  anatemy.  Comes  day- 
light I  limps  back  to  camp,  for  I  were  in  no  fix  for  ridin' 
till  I'd  lain  fer  two  mortal  hours  flat  on  me  stummick  on 
a  saddle  blanket — an'  me  as  naked  as  a  Yuma  Indian  kid 
in  July — whilst  Billy  St.  Joe  done  a  grand  job  of  pullin' 
them  divilish  cactus  barbs  from  various  an'  prominent  por- 
tions of  me  system.  Thim  infernal  things  stuck  out  of  me 
carcas  till,  as  one  of  the  byes  remarked,  'I  was  more  por- 
cupine than  human.' 

"  'What  skeered  your  cows,  Pat?'  says  Jim,  the  boss,  as 
I  come  cripplin'  into  camp.  'Sure  an'  if  I  knowed  I'd  tell 
ye,'  sez  I.  They  was  all  a-lyin'  that  ca'm  an'  peaceful  as 
wan  could  well  wish  fer.  Thin  up  they  hops  an'  immigrates. 
Me  an'  old  Shoestring  we  busted  out  after  'em,  an'  as  we 
tore  along  I  glimpsed  a  bunch  of  hairy,  wobbly-legged 
monsters  a-follerin'  us,  a-groanin'  an'  a-gurglin'  like  a  lot 
of  hobgoblins  from  hell,'  sez  I. 

"  'Git  out'  sez  Jim ;  '  'twas  aslape  ye  were,  ye  an'  old 


Camel  Huntirf  181 

Shoestring  both,  an'  he  had  a  bad  dream  an'  bucked 
ye  off  into  a  cholla'. 

"  'Not  on  yer  life,'  sez  I,  mad  enough  to  fight  a  grizzly 
between  the  grin  on  his  face  an'  the  stingin'  of  the  cactus 
barbs  in  me  back. 

"The  boys  managed  to  get  the  horses  rounded  up,  an' 
all  the  steers  together  by  noon,  but  too  late  to  move  camp 
that  day.  That  afternoon  Jim  sez,  'Git  yer  gun,  Pat,  an' 
come  wid  me.'  So  I  saddles  up  me  pony,  slips  me  Win- 
chester into  me  scabbard,  an'  him  an'  me  rides  off  from 
camp. 

"'What's  up?'  sez  I. 

"  'Nothin',  sez  he,  'only  over  here  a  ways  I  struck  the 
curiousest  tracks  I  ever  seen  in  all  me  life;  an'  me  a- 
knowin'  the  sign  of  every  critter  that  ever  walks  on  legs 
in  this  here  country.'  We  soon  struck  the  trail  Jim  had 
seen  an'  it  sure  were  a  new  one  on  both  of  us.  So  we  fol- 
lows it  up,  feelin'  it  was  our  juty,  as  law-abidin'  citizens, 
to  run  down  an'  kill  all  such  disorderly,  outlandish  crea- 
tures that  was  a-runnin'  at  large.  'Twan't  long  before  we 
comes  to  a  ridge  a-lookin'  out  over  a  little  valley,  an' 
leadin'  our  horses  we  footed  it  fer  the  top  of  the  ridge,  an' 
peekin*  over  we  seed  down  in  the  middle  of  the  flat  three 
hungry  lookin'  yaller  divils.  '  'Tis  me  wanderin'  rag-bags 
what  skeered  the  herd  last  night,'  sez  I,  triumphant  like — 
after  Jim  accusin*  me  of  goin'  to  sleep  on  guard  an' 
dreamin'  things. 

"  'I  reckon  you're  right,'  sez  Jim,  with  a  grin  on  his  mug. 

"They  was  a  dirty  yaller  color,  an'  what  wid  the  bare 
spots  all  over  thim,  like  sheep  wid  the  scab,  Jim  sez  they 


182        Tales  from  the  X-Ear  Horse  Camp 

looked  more  like  a  lot  of  mangy  coyotes  than  anythin'  he 
iver  seen  in  all  his  life.  'Twas  sure  no  fault  wid  thim  steers 
that  they  all  gits  up  an'  stampoodles  whin  such  a  bad- 
smellin',  evil-lookin'  lot  of  monsters  come  a-driftin'  down 
on  top  of  them,'  sez  he. 

"  'Twere  not  so  hard  to  git  closer  to  thim,  an'  whin  we 
finally  gits  as  near  as  we  thought  we  could,  an'  not  skeer 
thim,  we  each  picks  out  wan  an'  let  him  have  it  where  we 
believed  it  would  do  the  most  good.  Mine  never  ran  ten 
feet;  Jim's  fell  down  within  a  quarter;  the  third  wan 
struck  off  down  the  valley  at  a  great  rate,  an'  Jim,  bein' 
hell-bent  fer  ropin'  things,  hollered,  'Le's  rope  it,  le's  rope 
it!'  an'  jabbed  his  spurs  into  his  pony  an'  tore  off,  takin' 
down  his  rope  an'  makin  a  loop  as  he  wint. 

"  'Rope  him  if  ye  will,'  sez  I,  lammin'  me  old  digger  wid 
me  quirt,  'but  it's  meself  that  ropes  no  outlandish  heathin 
thing  lookin'  more  like  it  come  out  of  old  Noah's  ark  than 
a  daycent,  respectable  range  critter'.  But  I  follered  along 
as  fast  as  I  could  git  me  pony  to  move,  him  bein'  none  too 
anxious  to  git  close  to  the  slobberin'  cross  between  a  step- 
ladder  an'  a  hayrack,  that  was  lumberin'  along  ahead 
of  us. 

"Jim's  pony  was  a  darlin'  to  run,  an'  as  he  was  a-gittin* 
closer  for  a  throw  I  sez  to  meself,  'If  iver  that  crazy  lad 
ahead  puts  his  line  on  to  that  there  travelin'  maynagerie 
he's  a-follerin'  he's  a-goin'  to  need  help  to  turn  it  loose, 
sure.'  So  I  waits  fer  the  outcome,  feelin'  certain  I'd  be 
needed  before  long. 

"Bimeby  Jim  he  gits  a  good  chanst  fer  a  throw  an' 
drops  his  line  over  the  long,  ungainly  head  in  front  of  him ; 


Camel  Huntiri 


183 


but  the  rope,  instid  of  grippin'  the  critter's  throat,  slipped 
back  an'  drew  up  ag'in  its  breast,  an'  whin  Jim  tried  to 
check  him  up  the  pony  couldn't  hold  him.  Whin  the  hard 
jerk  come  Jim's  flank  cinch  busted,  the  pony  begins  to 
pitch,  an'  between  the  pit  chin'  an'  the  saddle  drawin'  up  on 
the  pony's  neck,  poor  Jim  lost  out  an'  went  up  into  the  air 
like  a  shootin'  star,  landin'  on  his  head  in  a  pile  of  rocks. 
The  saddle  stripped  over  the  pony's  head,  an'  away  went 
the  whole  outfit,  through  brush,  over  rocks,  across  washes, 
like  hell  a-beatin'  tanbark.  The  rope  bein'  tied  hard  an' 
fast  to  the  horn,  Jim's  new  $50  saddle  wint  danglin'  along 
behind,  like  a  tin  can  tied  to  a  dog's  tail.  When  Jim  come 
to,  a  few  minutes  later  on,  he  wiped  his  hand  across  his 
face,  looked  at  the  blood  on  it,  an'  sez  to  me,  sort  of  foolish 
like,  'What  struck  me,  Pat?' 

"  'I  reckon  'twas  wan  of  Jeff  Davis's  camels,'  sez  I." 


THE  TRINIDAD  KID 

There's  a  girl  I'd  love  to  see, 
She's  a  waiting  there  for  me, 
'Way  down  yonder  in  the  southwest  land. 

She  has  eyes  of  dreamy  blue, 

And  her  heart  is  always  true, 

'Way  down  yonder  on  the  Rio  Grande. 

THE  singer  was  riding  slowly  around  a  herd  of  steers 
"bedded  down"  on  an  open  flat  about  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  from  the  western,  or  Mexican  bank  of  the  river  of 
which  he  sang. 

It  was  the  first  guard,  from  eight  to  ten,  and  the 
steers,  having  had  a  fine  day's  grazing,  were  all  lying  down 
chewing  their  cuds  as  comfortably  as  a  bunch  of  milk  cows 
in  a  dairy  barn. 

Across  the  herd  his  "side  partner"  on  the  guard  was 
riding  toward  him,  so  that  twice  in  each  circle  of  the 
herd  they  met  for  an  instant  and  then  each  jogged  on 
into  the  darkness. 

As  they  met  this  time  the  singer  finished  the  verse, 
and  his  pony  acknowledged  the  slight  shifting  of  his  rider's 
body  in  the  saddle  by  coming  to  a  stop. 

184 


The  Trinidad  Kid  185 

"Gimme  a  match,"  demanded  the  singer  as  he  felt  in 
his  vest  pocket  for  the  "makings."  "Here  'tis,"  replied 
the  other,  "and  I  reckon  I'll  just  build  a  smoke  myself." 

"Let's  jog  along  together,"  suggested  the  second  man, 
"and  you  sing,  for  if  we  stand  here  and  strike  a  match  this 
herd  of  oxen  will  just  about  get  up  and  quit  the  flats." 

Down  along  the  river  bank  the  dim  spark  of  the  cook's 
fire  showed  where  the  outfit  was  camped,  while  a  short 
distance  beyond  it  the  Rio  Grande  at  full  flood  roared  like 
a  sullen  yellow  monster. 

The  fringe  of  cottonwoods  and  Tomttlos  along  its  bank 
were  outlined  against  the  background  of  the  sky  like 
shadow  pictures,  while  an  occasional  dull  crash  told  of  the 
loss  of  another  slice  of  the  Republic  of  Mexico  where, 
undermined  by  the  swift  flood,  a  piece  of  the  bank  had 
dropped  into  the  river  and  was  on  its  way  to  the  gulf. 

"Do  you  reckon  we'll  have  much  trouble  swimmin'  these 
steers  tomorrow?"  asked  the  singer,  as,  contrary  to  the 
rules  of  night-herding  of  all  cow  outfits,  they  rode  along 
together. 

"No,  I  don't  believe  we  will,"  was  the  reply.  "Uncle  John 
savvys  this  river  like  a  native,  an'  if  he  looks  at  it  tomorrow 
an'  says  'Cross  'em,'  they'll  make  it  all  right." 

"Well,  she's  sure  high,  and  'tain't  the  water  I'm  afraid 
of  half  so  much  as  the  infernal  quicksand.  I  never  did  like 
the  water,  nohow."  He  shook  his  head :  "Once  I  got  into  the 
quicksand  in  the  Little  Colorado  over  in  Arizony  and  like 
to  ended  up  in  the  Campo  Santo  fer  sure." 

"Say"  and  his  companion  handed  him  a  flaming  match 
— "you  smoke  up  a  little  an'  fergit  all  that.  We  got 


186        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

troubles  aplenty  without  huntin'  up  imaginary  things  to  git 
skeered  of.  Did  you  hear  the  yarn  that  stray  man  was  a- 
tellin'  in  camp  tonight?"  he  remarked,  with  the  evident 
intention  of  drawing  his  friend  from  so  gloomy  an  outlook. 

"Never  a  word ;  I  was  shoeing  my  horse  when  he  was 
talkin'  an'  didn't  hear  what  he  was  sayin'.  What  was  he 
talkin'  about?"  the  singer  queried. 

"Well,"  said  the  other,  "it  'pears  like  he  was  workin' 
f  er  the  Turkey  Track  outfit  in  Arizony  and  him  an'  another 
Turkey  Track  screw  comes  over  the  line  to  git  a  little 
touch  of  high  life  among  the  paisanos  on  this  side.  Well, 
they  gits  it  all  right,  for  between  half  a  dozen  Mexican 
women,  two  or  three  hombres,  an'  a  kaig  of  mescal,  'tain't 
hard  to  start  something;  an'  when  the  dust  settled  down 
this  stray  gent  finds  hisself  with  a  dead  man  on  his  hands 
an'  him  over  here  where  it's  the  eagle  an'  the  snake  instead 
of  the  Stars  and'  Stripes  a-flyin'  overhead.  I  was  busy 
makin'  down  my  bed  an'  never  heerd  how  he  come  out 
'ceptin'  he  says  there  was  some  fool  law  these  Mexicans 
has  which  don't  allow  the  body  of  any  one  what  dies  on 
Mexican  soil  to  be  taken  out  of  the  country  for  five  years. 
So  he  had  to  leave  his  friend  there  instead  of  gittin'  him 
acrost  an'  plantin'  him  up  in  the  Pan  Handle  where  his 
folks  lived." 

"What  for  don't  they  let  any  dead  body  be  taken  out 
of  this  here  country  ?"  And  the  boy  turned  uneasily  in  his 
saddle. 

"Damfino,"  replied  the  other;  "reckon  it's  just  some 
cranky  notion  these  Greasers  got;  maybeso  they  likes  your 
sassiety  an'  hates  to  part  with  you,  but,  anyhow,  that's  the 


The  Trinidad  Kid  187 

law  all  right,  all  right,  an'  if  you  dies  here,  you  stays  here, 
for  five  years,  if  no  longer." 

"Say,  Jim,"  the  kid's  voice  was  full  of  awe ;  "My  old 
mammy's  up  yonder  in  Trinidad,  an'  by  hooky,  if  I  was 
to  die  down  here  an'  she  couldn't  git  hold  of  me  to  bury  me 
up  there  where  she  laid  the  old  man  an'  my  sister,  she's  like 
to  go  plum  loco,  fer  sure." 

"Well,  you  better  make  your  plans  to  die  on  'tother  side 
the  line  or  else  so  close  to  it  that  somebody  can  haze  you 
across  without  any  of  them  there  Rurales  gittin'  on  to 
your  game,"  was  Jim's  reply,  as  he  returned  from  chasing 
a  steer  back  into  the  herd.  "So  far  as  I'm  concerned," 
he  continued,  "I  don't  reckon  it  makes  much  difference 
where  I'm  stuck  away,  for  I'm  a  drifter  an'  ain't  got  no 
kin  that  I  knows  of,  an'  I  guess  when  a  feller's  dead  he  kin 
hear  ole  Gabe  blow  his  horn  on  this  side  the  Rio  Grande  jist 
as  easy  as  on  'tother." 

The  next  morning  the  sun  was  just  peeping  over  the 
sand  hills  away  to  the  east  when  Uncle  John,  who  had 
been  down  along  the  river  since  the  first  gray  streak  in  the 
sky  announced  the  coming  of  day,  rode  into  camp  as  the 
boys  were  catching  out  their  horses.  As  the  wagon  boss 
glanced  at  him,  he  nodded  and  said,  "All  right,  George, 
we'll  try  it  this  morning;  the  river  has  fallen  a  lot  since 
last  night." 

"Which  means  that  I  turns  this  here  mule  loose  an'  gits 
me  a  horse,"  remarked  one  of  the  riders  who  had  just 
roped  a  little  black  saddle  mule,  "fer  a  mule  ain't  no  earthly 
good  in  water.  If  they  gits  their  ears  wet,  they  jist  lays 
down  on  you,  an'  quits  right  there." 


188        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

"On  her  hand  I  placed  a  ring, 
When  I  left  her  in  the  spring, 
'Way  down  yonder  in  the  southwest  land." 

The  singer's  voice  rose  above  the  shouts  of  the  other 
boys  as  they  pushed  the  cattle  along  toward  the  river. 

"An'  she  said  she'd  not  forget  me, 

Oh,  she'll  be  there  to  meet  me, 

'Way  down  yonder  on  the  Rio  Grande." 

"That's  right,  Kid,  sing  to  'em.  Time  you've  got 
through  with  this  here  muddy  water  job  she  won't  know 
you  if  she  is  there  to  meet  you,"  laughed  the  horse- 
wrangler. 

As  the  herd  swung  down  to  the  river,  the  horse-wrangler 
had  his  entire  remuda  at  the  water's  edge,  and  with  two 
men  to  help  him  he  slowly  forced  the  horses  out  into  the 
stream,  with  old  Bennie,  the  crack  "cutting  horse"  of  the 
outfit,  in  the  lead.  The  old  rascal  had  been  used  for  this 
work  for  ten  years  and  well  knew  that  there  was  a  nose 
bag  full  of  oats  waiting  for  him  on  the  further  bank  of  the 
river. 

As  the  steers  on  the  O.  T.  ranch  had  always  been 
handled  by  placing  the  horse  herd  ahead  of  them  when 
corraling  or  taking  a  narrow  trail  down  some  canon,  they 
followed  the  horses  with  little  delay. 

On  the  upper  side  of  the  lead  cattle  rode  the  Trinidad 
Kid  on  his  best  horse. 

"Oh  I  know  a  shady  spot, 

Where  we'll  build  a  little  cot, 

'Way  down  yonder  in  the  southwest  land. 


The  Trinidad  Kid  189 

"And  the  mocking  birds  will  sing, 

And  the  wedding  bells  will  ring, 

'Way  down  yonder  on  the  Rio  Grande," 

he  sang  loudly  as  his  pony  plowed  through  the  muddy 
water. 

"Say  Dick,"  shouted  the  man  behind  him,  "ain't  you 
going  to  ask  us  to  all  the  doings  when  them  wedding  bells 
cut  loose?" 

"I  reckon  so,"  was  the  answer,  "and  what's  more,  if 
I  gets  me  onto  the  yonderly  side  of  this  streak  of  mud, 
I'm  a  going  to  stay  there.  I've  seen  all  I  want  to  of  this 
'manana  land.' ' 

Just  at  the  critical  time,  when  everything  seemed  to 
be  working  out  all  right,  a  great  wave  of  water  swept 
down  the  stream  and  broke  with  a  crash  right  in  front  of 
the  leading  steers.  They  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then 
another  wave  broke,  and  still  another,  and  in  an  instant 
the  leaders  were  swinging  back  on  to  each  other  in  their 
senseless  panic.  In  less  than  a  minute  a  hundred  of  them 
were  swimming  round  and  round  in  the  muddy  waters, 
a  whirling,  struggling  mass  of  horns  and  bodies.  They 
jumped  upon  one  another,  bearing  the  under  ones  down 
into  the  water,  until  it  was  boiling  with  the  fighting,  mad- 
dened animals. 

The  kid  did  not  wait  for  orders.  Well  he  knew  that 
it  was  up  to  him  to  break  up  that  milling  mighty  quick  or 
the  whole  day's  work  was  lost.  Heading  his  pony  toward 
the  struggling  mass  of  animals,  he  drove  at  them  without 
an  instant's  hesitation. 


190        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

"Oh  the  mocking  birds  will  sing, 
And  the  wedding  bells  will  ring, 
'Way  down  yonder  on  the  Rio  Grande." 

Singing  at  the  top  of  his  voice  and  swinging  his  slicker 
over  his  head,  he  swept  down  on  the  outside  steers,  being 
crowded  on  to  them  by  the  swift  current  against  which 
his  plucky  pony  struggled  hard.  Had  he  abandoned  the 
effort  and  turned  the  animal  up  stream,  facing  the  current, 
he  might  have  breasted  it  and  held  his  own,  but  the  kid 
resolutely  kept  his  place  as  well  as  he  could. 

"'Way  down  yonder  on  the  Rio  Grande, 
'Way  down  yonder  in  that  southwest  land," 

he  sang  valiantly  as  he  thrashed  the  steers  with  his  yellow 
slicker,  trying  to  turn  them  from  their  course.  He  was 
rapidly  accomplishing  his  purpose,  and  a  few  of  the  leaders 
were  already  turned  and  about  to  string  out  for  the  shore, 
when  one  broad-horned  fellow  right  behind  him  raised  in 
the  water  like  some  huge  sea  monster,  and  lunged  upon 
his  horse's  hips  with  both  front  feet. 

The  weight  of  the  steer  drove  the  horse  down  into  the 
water,  the  swift  current  swept  him  on  to  his  side,  and  in 
a  second  he  was  under  the  mass  of  steers,  his  rider  hanging 
to  him. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  horse  came  into  view  from 
below  the  cattle  but  the  boy  was  missing.  Uncle  John,  at 
the  first  sign  of  trouble  had  dashed  toward  the  spot,  and 
as  the  horse  came  into  sight  leaned  from  his  saddle,  grabbed 
the  bridle  rein  and  pulled  the  half-drowned  animal  on  to 


The  Trinidad  Kid  191 

his  feet  in  the  shallower  water.  Spurring  into  the  deep 
water  again,  he  and  the  men  with  him  swung  up  and  down 
the  line  of  cattle,  watching  with  eager,  anxious  eyes  for 
the  slightest  sign  of  a  human  form,  but  they  could  see 
nothing. 

Meantime  the  steers  were  rapidly  crossing,  and  the 
leaders  had  already  climbed  out  on  to  the  opposite  bank 
and  were  working  back  from  the  river,  coughing  and  shak- 
ing their  dripping  bodies. 

Two  other  men  joined  Uncle  John  in  the  search  for 
the  lost  singer,  but  though  they  watched  every  spot,  riding 
up  and  down  the  stream  for  a  mile,  they  were  unable  to 
discover  any  sign  of  the  boy. 

Leaving  Jim  and  another  man  to  watch  the  river,  the 
rest  of  the  outfit  pushed  the  steers  out  on  to  the  open 
range  to  graze. 

Up  and  down  the  bank  all  that  day  the  two  men  rode, 
reinforced  by  all  the  others  who  could  be  spared  from  the 
herd.  Across  the  seat  of  the  saddle  on  the  horse  ridden  by 
the  boy  was  a  deep  scar  where  the  rowels  of  his  spur  had 
cut  the  leather,  done  probably  as  he  slipped  from  the 
horse  as  he  went  under. 

The  steers  could  not  be  held  there  long,  so  the  next 
morning  Uncle  John,  with  a  heavy  heart,  started  the  outfit 
at  daybreak  for  the  railroad  loading  pens,  thirty  miles 
away,  leaving  Jim,  who  had  asked  for  the  job,  behind  to 
keep  a  lookout  for  the  body  of  the  drowned  cowboy.  All 
day  long  he  rode  the  banks  of  the  river.  Every  eddy  as 
well  as  the  great  rafts  of  driftwood,  was  carefully  searched. 
Just  a  short  time  before  sunset  he  noticed  a  couple  of 


192        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

buzzards  a  little  lower  down  on  the  river  slowly  circling 
overhead.  He  knew  their  keen  eyes  saw  something,  and 
both  hoping  and  dreading  that  it  was  what  he  sought,  he 
worked  his  way  down  towards  the  point  over  which  the  great 
birds  were  hovering.  Here  the  river  had  cut  into  the  sandy 
bank  and  a  thicket  of  willows  hung  over  the  yellow  water. 
Getting  down  onto  one  knee,  Jim  peered  under  them. 

Yes,  there  was  "something"  there.  His  heart  came 
into  his  mouth,  he  gasped  for  breath,  and  the  cold  sweat 
stood  on  his  face  in  great  drops.  A  long,  lance  like  pole 
from  a  nearby  pile  of  drift  wood,  furnished  him  with 
a  tool  to  sound  the  depth  of  water  along  the  bank.  It 
was  not  over  waist  deep,  the  bottom  was  firm,  and,  dropping 
off  the  bank,  he  waded  down  under  the  overhanging  brush. 
There,  floating  in  the  stream,  was  the  body  of  the  Kid.  A 
bough  had  caught  in  the  belt  of  his  leather  "chaps"  and 
held  it  firmly.  It  was  the  work  of  a  moment  for  Jim  to 
attach  one  end  of  his  saddle  rope  to  the  belt  and  carry 
the  other  back  with  him  to  the  open  spot  above  the  willows. 
His  first  intention  was  to  tow  the  body  up  to  a  place 
where  it  could  be  taken  out  and  then  go  for  help. 

Wading  up  the  stream,  he  climbed  out  on  the  bank  and 
sat  down  to  rest  for  a  moment.  It  was  second  nature 
for  him  to  get  out  his  pipe  and  tobacco,  and  as  he  sat 
there  the  talk  between  himself  and  the  singer  around  the 
herd  the  night  before  the  crossing  came  to  his  mind.  What 
could  he  do  ?  The  body  was  found  on  Mexican  soil.  About 
a  hundred  yards  from  the  bank  behind  his  was  a  little 
Mexican  jacal,  or  hut,  where  he  had  noticed  half  a  dozen 
children — even  now  he  could  hear  their  shouts  as  they 


The  Trinidad  Kid  193 

played.  To  get  it  away  from  there  was  seemingly  im- 
possible. 

The  twilight  was  nearly  over  and  in  the  east  the  sky 
was  glowing  with  the  light  of  the  moon,  which  almost  at 
the  full  would  soon  rise.  For  half  an  hour  he  sat  there 
thinking,  the  pipe  smoked  out  and  dead  between  his  teeth. 
Then  he  rose,  knocked  the  ashes  out  on  his  boot  heel, 
slipped  the  pipe  into  his  pocket,  and  worked  his  way  care- 
fully up  to  the  top  of  the  bank  behind  him.  Peering 
through  the  fringe  of  trees,  he  saw  in  the  moonlight  the 
mud  daubed  jacal.  A  dog  barked,  in  the  distance  a  coyote 
answered  with  its  shrill  "yip,  yip>"  and  from  the  limbs  of 
a  mesquite — the  family  chicken  coop — a  rooster  saluted 
the  rising  of  the  moon  with  a  cheerful  crow.  In  front 
of  the  jacal  a  bright  spark  glowed  where  the  fire  of  mesquite 
limbs  over  which  the  evening  supper  had  been  cooked,  was 
dying  away,  and  he  could  dimly  make  out  the  forms  of  the 
family  asleep  on  the  ground  near  the  hut. 

Then,  satisfied  with  the  condition  of  things,  he  care- 
fully worked  his  way  back  to  the  edge  of  the  river,  and, 
having  looked  to  the  rope,  which  he  had  fastened  to  a  sharp 
piece  of  drift  driven  into  the  sand,  lay  down  by  it  and  in 
ten  seconds  was  fast  asleep. 

About  three  o'clock  the  next  morning,  just  as  the  moon 
dropped  behind  the  cotton  woods  along  the  river,  throwing 
deep  shadows  over  its  sullen  tide,  four  steers,  probably 
lost  from  the  herd  the  day  before,  came  down  to  the  river 
to  drink.  As  they  reached  the  edge  of  the  water  one  raised 
his  head  quickly  and  snuffed  the  air.  The  others  also  threw 
up  their  heads  and  tested  the  air  with  their  keen  noses, 


194        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

their  great  ears  cocked  forward  to  catch  the  slightest 
sound.  High  headed  and  suspicious,  they  all  stood  for  an 
instant,  and  then  as  if  with  one  impulse  ran  back  a  few 
steps  and  stopped  to  look  again. 

Out  there  in  the  deep  shadow  something  moved  slowly 
and  heavily.  Now  and  then  a  splash  came  from  the  object 
as  the  water  struck  against  it. 

The  steers  snuffed  and  licked  their  lips  as  do  such 
animals  where  fear  and  curiosity  is  struggling  in  them  for 
the  mastery.  Then  as  the  something  moved  more  distinctly, 
with  terror  in  their  eyes  they  all  turned  and  burst  into  the 
darkness  behind  them,  crashing  through  the  young  cot- 
tonwoods  and  over  piles  of  loose  driftwood  in  their  mad 
haste  to  escape — they  knew  not  what.  Still,  the  "some- 
thing" came  on ;  slowly  it  moved  through  the  muddy  waters 
until  the  form  of  a  man  could  be  distinguished  in  the  un- 
certain light,  carrying  some  heavy  load. 

At  the  edge  of  the  river  the  man  placed  his  burden  on 
the  soft  sand  and  dropped  down,  panting  for  breath. 


At  noon  that  day,  a  single  horseman  rode  a  tired, 
sweat-covered  animal  into  a  little  town  on  the  railroad 
some  thirty  miles  from  the  river.  Two  hours  later,  away 
to  the  north,  under  the  snow-capped  Rockies,  where  the 
city  of  Trinidad  nestles  below  the  Raton  Pass,  a  lone 
woman  received  this  brief  message: 

"Dick  was  accidentally  drowned  yesterday  crossing  the 
river.  Wagon  will  be  here  tomorrow  with  body,  Please 
wire  instructions. 

"JAMES  SCOTT." 


PABLO* 

ND  Pablo." 

"Senor?"  And  the  boy  looked  inquiringly  at  the 
speaker.  "You  stay  right  here  around  this  meadow. 
Here's  plenty  of  feed  and  water  for  your  band  till  I  come 
back  from  town.  Savvey?" 

"Si,  Senor." 

"I  won't  be  gone  bufc  three  days,  Pablo,"  continued  the 
man,  shifting  uneasily  in  his  saddle,  "an'  it's  a  tough  deal 
to  give  you,  but  there's  nothing  else  to  do.  That  misable, 
onery  Mack  is  drunk  down  in  town  an'  won't  never  git  out 
till  his  money's  all  gone  an'  somebody  takes  him  by  the 
scruff  of  the  neck  an'  kicks  him  out  of  the  saloon  an'  loads 
him  onto  his  horse.  You've  got  twelve  hundred  ewes  an* 
'leven  hundred  of  the  best  lambs  that  this  here  range  has 
ever  seen.  There's  ten  negros,  ires  campanas,  an'  cmco 
chivos;  reckon  you  can  keep  track  of  'em  all?" 

"Si,  Senor,"  assented  the  boy,  in  whose  veins  flowed 
the  blood  of  almost  three  centuries  of  sheepherders,  "tres 
bells-camp  anas,"  and  three  fingers  indicated  the  number 
of  belled  ewes  in  the  bunch,  "cmco  goats,"  and  one  out- 
spread hand  showed  the  number  of  goats  with  the  ewes, 
"diez  black-a  markers,"  holding  up  all  ten  fingers. 

*By  permission  The  Breeder's  Gazette,  Chicago,  111. 

195 


196        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

"That's  right,  muchacho,"  answered  the  man;  "you 
keep  track  of  your  markers  an'  bells  an'  goats,  an'  you 
won't  lose  any  sheep.  There's  plenty  of  water  here  for 
your  camp,  and  the  sheep  won't  need  any  for  some  days. 
There's  a  lot  of  poison  weeds  lower  down  on  the  mountain, 
an'  it  won't  do  to  graze  the  band  that-a-way.  Take  'em  up 
toward  the  top  if  you  go  anywhere;  but  keep  your  camp 
here  an'  stay  with  it  till  I  come  back,  savvey  ?" 

"Si,  Senor,"  with  a  quick  nod  of  the  head. 

The  man  dropped  off  his  horse,  gave  the  curly  black 
mop  on  the  boy's  head  a  hasty  pat,  picked  up  the  lead  rope 
of  a  pack  mule  standing  near  and,  mounting,  rode  off 
down  the  trail. 

The  little  meadow  was  located  on  a  small  bench  high 
on  the  breast  of  a  mountain  whosetbare  granite  peaks  rose 
rough  and  ragged  far  above  the  timber  line.  At  one  side 
of  the  meadow,  under  a  mighty  fir  tree,  stood  the  herder's 
tent,  a  white  pyramid  among  the  green  foliage.  If  there 
was  another  human  being  nearer  than  the  little  railroad 
town  forty-five  miles  away,  the  boy  knew  it  not.  He 
watched  the  man  ride  slowly  down  the  trail  until  he  dis- 
appeared behind  a  mass  of  trees.  The  dog  at  his  side 
whined  as  the  man  was  lost  to  view  and  poked  his  cold 
muzzle  into  the  boy's  hand. 

"Ah,  perrito  mio"  and  he  hugged  the  fawning  animal 
close  to  his  body,  "the  patron  has  gone  and  left  us  here  all 
alone  to  care  for  the  sheep.  Think  of  it,  I,  Pablo,  to  be 
trusted  with  so  much.  Shall  we  not  care  for  them  as  for 
our  own?  Didst  hear  him  say  we  were  not  to  leave  this 
camp  while  he  was  away?  Ten  black  ones  for  markers, 


Pablo  197 

three  bells  and  five  great  chivos.  Aha,  we  shall  count  them 
each  a  hundred  times  a  day,  and  sly  indeed  will  be  the  ewe 
that  shall  escape  from  us.  Is  it  not  so,  my  brave  Pancho?" 
And  for  answer  the  dog  barked  and  romped  about  the  lad 
as  if  to  show  he  also  appreciated  the  honor  and  responsi- 
bility thrust  upon  the  two. 

Down  the  trail  the  sheepman,  Hawk,  jogged  along 
toward  the  town  where  Mac,  the  recreant  herder,  was  doubt- 
less wasting  his  substance  in  riotous  living.  "If  ever  I  git 
holt  of  that  there  rascal,  I'll  wear  out  the  ground  with 
him,"  he  soliloquized.  "To  go  off  and  leave  me  with  a  band 
of  ewes  on  my  hands  at  such  a  time  and  not  come  back  as 
he  promised.  Serves  me  right  for  letting  him  go,  for  I 
might  'a'  known  he'd  not  come  back  in  time.  That  there 
Pablo's  a  good  kid  all  right,  but  it's  a  pretty  big  risk  to 
turn  over  to  a  twelve-year-old  boy  that  many  ewes  and 
lambs.  Lucky  for  me  he  happened  to  stay  in  camp  after 
the  lambing  was  over;  his  father's  about  the  best  sheep- 
herder  on  the  whole  range,  and  them  Mexican  kids  would 
rather  herd  a  bunch  of  sheep  than  ride  on  a  merry-go- 
round.  Well,"  and  he  slapped  his  horse  with  the  end  of 
his  rope,  "he's  got  a  good  dog,  the  best  in  the  mountains, 
an'  if  he  keeps  track  of  his  bells  an'  markers  'tain't  likely 
he'll  lose  any  sheep.  However,  there  ain't  no  use  worry- 
ing over  it,  for  I  couldn't  stay  there  myself  any  longer,  an' 
the  sooner  I  gits  to  town  an'  hustles  that  there  red  headed 
Mac  out  to  camp,  the  better." 

Down  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain  he  met  a  forest  ranger 
leading  a  pack  mule. 

"What's  doing?"  asked  Hawk  of  the  government  man. 


198        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

"Big  fire  over  on  'tother  side  of  the  mountain," 
answered  the  ranger.  "Old  man  phoned  me  to  get  over 
there  as  soon  as  ever  I  could  and  lend  a  hand.  Mighty 
dry  season  now,  and  if  fire  ever  gets  started  it'll  take  a  lot 
more  men  to  stop  it  than  we  got  in  this  forest.  I  been  riding 
now  night  and  day  for  the  last  thirty  days  patroling  my 
district,  to  lookout  for  fires,  and  I  hate  to  have  to  go  clear 
over  on  the  other  side  and  leave  it  all  uncovered." 

"How  big  a  district  you  got,  anyhow?"  queried  the 
sheepman. 

"Little  over  six  townships  and  a  half;  that's  over  a 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  acres,  and  it's  all  a-standing 
on  edge  too" — he  waved  his  gloved  hand  toward  the  range 
about  them — "so  there's  twice  as  much,  if  you  count  the 
mountain  sides.  The  Super,  he  asked  for  six  more  rangers 
last  fall  when  he  sent  in  his  annual  report,  but  the  high 
collars  back  there  in  Washington  said  Congress  was  cut- 
ting down  expenses  and  so  we'd  have  to  spread  ourselves 
out  and  cover  the  ground,  and  do  the  best  we  could.  That's 
why  the  boss  rustled  the  boys  out  in  such  a  hurry,  for  we 
can't  afford  to  take  any  chances  on  a  fire  getting  a  start. 
If  it  ever  does,  it's  good-bye  trees,  for  once  a  fire  gets 
under  good  headway  in  these  mountains,  with  conditions 
just  right,  all  the  fire  fighters  in  hell  couldn't  stop  it.  So 
long,  old  man,  I've  got  to  be  a-drifting." 

As  the  ranger  moved  off  up  the  canon,  the  sheepman 
turned  and  glanced  up  at  the  sky  toward  the  spot  where 
he  had  left  Pablo  and  his  charges.  There  were  no  signs 
of  smoke  in  the  clear  blue  above,  so  he  touched  the  horse 
with  his  spurs  and  resumed  his  journey,  content  to  leave 


Pablo  199 

the  fire  fighting  to  the  ranger  force  until  he  was  called  on 
for  aid.  Anyhow,  it  was  clear  over  on  the  other  side  of  the 
mountain  and  he  wasn't  interested  there,  and  it  would  be 
time  enough  to  worry  when  it  got  over  on  to  his  side.  Mean- 
while, there  was  that  miserable  Mac  drunk  in  town  and  an- 
other band  of  lambs  and  ewes  somewhere  on  the  range,  that 
he  ought  to  look  in  on  before  long. 

Back  on  the  mountain  meadow  Pablo  and  his  ewes  and 
lambs  got  on  famously.  The  boy  pushed  the  band  out  on 
to  the  mountainside,  away  from  camp,  telling  Pancho  to 
care  for  them  while  he  went  to  find  the  two  pack  burros 
and  drive  them  back  to  camp.  All  day  long  the  boy  watched 
the  herd  as  a  hen  watches  her  chicks.  Over  and  over  again 
he  counted  the  ten  black  "markers,"  those  black  sheep 
that  come  in  every  flock  and  without  which  no  herder  would 
work.  If  all  ten  of  them  were  there  in  the  herd  it  was  safe 
to  presume  that  none  of  the  ewes  had  been  lost,  for,  as  they 
grazed  back  and  forth  through  the  timber,  "cuts"  might 
happen  to  the  best  of  herders.  Once  he  counted  but  nine. 
Yes,  surely  there  were  but  nine.  He  called  the  dog  to  his 
side,  pointed  to  a  ridge  beyond  them  and  told  the  animal 
to  go  over  there  and  look  for  the  missing  ones. 

Away  Pancho  bounded,  stopping  often  to  look  back 
at  his  master  for  orders.  The  boy  waved  his  arm  and  the 
dog  went  on  until  he  stood  a  black  speck  at  the  top  of  the 
ridge.  With  foot  upraised  and  ears  cocked,  he  watched 
again  for  commands.  Another  wave  of  the  arm  and  the 
dog  dashed  over  the  ridge  and  out  of  sight.  Half  an  hour 
later  an  eager  bark  came  from  the  ridge,  and  there,  slowly 
toiling  through  the  trees,  came  the  lost  sheep,  followed 


200        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

by  the  faithful  dog,  keeping  them  moving  toward  the  herd 
and  jet  not  hurrying  them  beyond  the  speed  of  the  lambs. 
In  their  lead  was  the  black  marker.  Once  more  his  ten 
negros  were  all  there. 

The  next  night  from  over  the  mountain-top  rolled  a 
great  wave  of  black  smoke.  The  sheep,  "bedded  down" 
near  the  camp,  were  uneasy  and  kept  sniffing  at  the  heavy 
air.  At  daylight  the  boy  pushed  them  from  the  bed  ground 
and  worked  them  up  toward  the  mountain-top,  where  the 
trees  stopped  growing  and  there  was  little  danger  of  fire 
reaching  them.  Leaving  the  dog  to  care  for  the  sheep,  the 
boy  climbed  up  higher  until  he  could  see  about  him.  On 
every  side  was  a  sea  of  smoke.  Great  black  billows  rolled 
up  from  below  him  and  the  wind  blew  a  gale  from  the 
direction  of  the  other  side  of  the  mountain.  The  patron 
would  be  back  that  night,  but  until  then  Pablo  must  stay 
where  he  was,  for  had  he  not  been  told  to  do  so  ?  All  day 
he  watched  the  smoke  boiling  up  about  him.  The  sheep 
were  restless  and  bunched  up  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to  get 
them  to  scatter  out  and  graze  as  they  should. 

In  the  afternoon  he  worked  his  way  down  the  moun- 
tainside, below  the  meadow  and,  perched  on  a  huge  boulder, 
watched  the  fire  licking  its  way  slowly  through  the  forest. 
As  far  as  he  could  see  the  red  line  stretched  like  a  fiery 
snake,  but  unless  the  wind  changed  it  would  not  reach  his 
camp  for  some  time  yet. 

If  only  the  patron  would  come  and  relieve  him  of  this 
responsibility !  All  those  ewes  with  their  fine  lambs  grazing 
there,  and  depending  on  him,  Pablo,  for  protection  and 
care.  What  should  he  do  ?  He  must  not  leave  the  camp. 


Pablo  201 

and  still,  if  he  kept  the  sheep  there  and  the  fire  really  came 
to  the  meadow,  they  might  all  die. 

Late  that  evening  the  wind  changed  and  blew  up  the 
canon  like  a  gale,  carrying  with  it  clouds  of  smoke  and 
burning  brands  which  started  fires  far  in  advance  of  the 
main  line.  But  the  boy  stayed  with  the  sheep,  wide  awake 
and  watchful,  hardly  taking  time  to  eat  his  simple  meals 
of  frijoles,  mutton  and  bread.  Below  him,  the  sky  was 
alight  with  the  flames.  Now  and  then  a  thunderous  crash 
told  where  some  giant  of  the  forest  had  given  up  the  fight — 
three  hundred  and  fifty  years'  work  undone  in  an  hour. 
Half  a  dozen  coyotes  and  a  wildcat  skulked  out  of  the 
timber  that  fringed  the  meadow  and  buried  themselves  in 
the  little  clump  of  willows  that  grew  about  the  spring.  By 
midnight  he  realized  that  to  stay  where  he  was  meant  death 
for  himself  and  his  woolly  charges.  The  sheep  were  rest- 
less, constantly  moving  about  on  the  bed  ground,  the  lambs 
running  and  bleating  through  the  herd  as  if  they,  too, 
realized  the  danger.  The  dog  whined  and  looked  anxiously 
toward  the  coming  light,  which  now  made  the  night  almost 
as  bright  as  noonday. 

"What  would'st  thou  do,  Panchito?"  said  the  boy. 
"Did  not  the  patron  tell  us  to  remain  here  until  he  came, 
and  yet,  shall  we  stay  and  die  when  the  fire  comes  ?"  Then 
the  thought  came  to  him  that  up  higher  on  the  mountain 
the  sheep  would  be  safe  if  once  there. 

At  the  first  sign  of  coming  day  he  set  about  his  prepar- 
ations for  leaving.  First,  he  tore  from  its  pins  the  light 
tent,  spread  it  out  on  the  ground,  swept  into  it  the  small 
supply  of  food  which  the  camp  contained,  and  rolled  the 


202        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

tent  about  it.  Then,  with  a  short-handled  camp  shovel  he 
dug  a  shallow  hole  in  the  soft  mountain  soil  into  which  he 
placed,  first,  the  sheepskins  and  blankets  which  formed  his 
bed  and  then  the  bundle  of  the  tent,  covering  it  all  with  the 
dirt,  thus  securing  it  from  the  fire. 

Having  thus  protected  his  food  supply,  he  sent  the  dog 
around  the  sheep  to  bunch  them  up  and  started  them  up 
the  mountainside.  The  sheep,  frightened  by  the  smoke  and 
approaching  fire,  moved  rapidly,  and  inside  of  half  an 
hour  the  boy  had  them  all  bedded  down  on  a  great  bare 
granite  field  in  the  middle  of  a  little  boulder-strewn  valley 
where,  ages  ago,  some  slipping,  sliding  glacier  had 
smoothed  and  polished  the  surface  of  the  rocks  until  they 
were  like  some  gigantic  table  top.  The  valley  was  far 
above  timber  and  the  sheep  safe  from  fire. 

Leaving  the  dog  to  watch  the  sheep,  he  hastened  back 
to  the  meadow,  there  to  await  the  coming  of  the  patron 
as  he  had  been  bidden.  Once  upon  the  prairie,  where  his 
father  lived,  he  had  seen  the  men  go  out  to  meet  an 
approaching  fire  and  by  means  of  back  firing  keep  it  away 
from  the  houses  and  fields. 

In  the  camp  was  a  stick  of  pitch  pine  which  some  one 
had  brought  for  starting  fires.  Taking  the  ax,  he  quickly 
split  off  a  handful  of  splinters,  which  he  bound  together 
with  a  handy  piece  of  baling  wire.  Going  to  the  lower  end 
of  the  meadow  toward  the  fire  with  his  improvised  torch, 
he  started  a  line  of  small  fires,  hoping  they  would  spread 
and  thus  be  some  slight  protection  to  the  meadow. 

The  wind  favored  him,  and  in  a  short  time  he  had  a 
wide  swath  burned  clear  along  one  side  of  the  meadow  and 


Pablo  203 

his  fire  was  eating  out  into  the  forest  and  would  keep  the 
flames  back  some  distance. 

As  the  main  fire  line  came  along  he  was  smothered 
with  the  clouds  of  smoke  and  waves  of  heat  which  swept 
down  as  from  a  furnace.  He  stood  it  as  long  as  he  could, 
fighting  back  the  fire  at  every  point  where  the  flames  were 
eating  out  into  the  meadow.  Burning  brands  ate  holes  in 
his  cotton  shirt,  and  the  soles  of  his  "teguas,"  or  rawhide 
moccasins,  were  burned  through  and  through.  As  the  mass 
of  fire  reached  his  back-fire  line  he  ran  to  the  little  spring 
in  the  middle  of  the  meadow  and  threw  himself  into  it, 
rolling  over  and  over  in  the  mud  and  water  about  it.  The 
coyotes  and  wildcat  that  had  taken  refuge  there  hardly 
noticed  his  presence  in  the  face  of  the  coming  danger. 

Half  an  hour  or  more  of  stifling  smoke  and  burning 
heat  and  he  dared  to  leave  his  place  in  the  spring.  About 
the  meadow  some  of  the  trees  were  burning  clear  to  their 
tops,  and  great  logs  were  blazing  everywhere,  but  the  force 
of  the  fire  was  spent  and  had  gone  on  past  him  and  he  was 
left  as  on  an  island  in  midocean. 

It  was  far  past  noon.  Perhaps  the  patron  would  come 
today.  He  found  the  shovel  and  dug  up  the  buried  tent 
with  its  precious  contents  and  made  a  hasty  meal  of  bread 
and  meat.  Then,  taking  a  piece  of  the  meat  for  the  faith- 
ful Pancho,  he  struck  out  into  the  blackened  area  about 
him  to  find  the  sheep  which  he  had  left  to  the  dog's  care 
that  morning. 

He  was  very  tired  and  his  almost  bare  feet  were  badly 
cut  and  burned,  causing  him  to  stop  and  rest  frequently, 
but  he  finally  reached  the  granite  ledge,  and  there  found 


204        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

the  sheep,  with  the  dog  watching  their  every  movement, 
and  woe  unto  the  ewe  or  venturesome  lamb  that  attempted 
to  wander  too  far  into  the  valley,  for  he  was  at  its  heels  in 
a  minute  to  drive  it  back. 

That  evening,  about  dark,  two  men  rode  into  the  upper 
end  of  the  meadow.  The  face  of  each  was  black  and  grimy 
with  smoke  and  sweat.  Their  eyes  were  red  and  swollen 
and  their  horses  so  tired  they  stumbled  as  they  moved.  As 
they  came  out  of  the  blackened  area  about  the  meadow 
and  were  able  to  see  across  it  the  man  in  advance  stopped 
his  horse. 

"Lord,  I  do  hate  to  think  of  leaving  that  poor  little 
devil  up  here  all  alone  with  them  sheep,"  he  said  to  his 
companion.  "Naturally  I  hate  to  think  of  losing  the  sheep, 
but  to  have  him  burnt  up  too  is  awful." 

Suddenly  he  straightened  up  in  his  saddle  and  rubbed 
his  eyes.  "Say,  Bill,"  he  called,  "is  that  a  bunch  of  sheep 
there,  or  are  my  eyes  fooling  me?"  Before  Bill  could 
reply  a  dog  barked  and  came  racing  toward  them. 

"Well,  if  it  ain't  Pancho  as  I'm  a  sinner,"  was  the  man's 
delighted  cry. 

Then  the  tinkle  of  a  sheep  bell  reached  their  ears.  They 
spurred  their  tired  horses  into  a  trot  and  soon  reached  the 
spot  where  once  stood  the  camp  tent.  In  the  dim  light 
they  saw  a  freshly  dug  hole  with  a  tent  lying  beside  it,  upon 
which  was  piled  a  miscellaneous  assortment  of  food  and 
camping  utensils,  mutely  telling  the  story  of  how  the  camp 
outfit  had  been  saved. 

Nearby  on  a  pile  of  sheep  skins  and  under  an  old 
blanket  lay  a  boy  sleeping  soundly.  The  eager  barking  of 


'  Pablo  205 

the  dog  and  the  heavy  tread  of  the  horses  awoke  him,  and 
with  a  start  he  sprang  to  his  feet.  His  clothing  was  a  mass 
of  mud,  his  face  so  black  and  tear-stained  that  it  was  al- 
most unrecognizable,  but  the  sheepman  sprang  from  his 
horse  and  grabbed  him  in  his  arms  with  a  strange  choking 
in  his  throat  he  could  hardly  conquer. 

"Why,  Pablo  boy,  muchacho  mio,  how  did  you  pull 
through  this  hell  fire  and  save  yourself  and  the  sheep  too  ?" 
he  asked,  patting  the  dirty  cheeks  and  mud-filled  hair. 

"The  patron  told  me  to  stay  here  till  he  returned," 
said  the  boy,  "there  are  all  the  sheep,  the  ten  markers,  the 
three  campanas,  and  the  five  chivos,  that  the  patron  left 
with  me.  All  are  there."  The  child's  eyes  glowed  with  the 
pride  of  accomplishment. 

"Bill,"  said  the  sheepman,  "what's  that  little  feller's 
name  what  we  used  to  recite  about  in  school,  him  that  did 
the  stunt  about  standing  on  the  burning  deck?" 

"You  mean  Casabianca?" 

"That's  him,  that's  the  chap.  Say,  Pablo" — his  voice 
choked  and  he  swallowed  hard  before  the  words  would 
come  to  his  lips — "Pablo,  you're  Casabianca  all  righty, 
and  then  some,  for  that  little  feller  didn't  save  his  bacon 
by  stay  in'  where  he  was  tole  to.  You  not  only  saved  yours 
but  twelve  hundred  of  the  best  ewes  and  lambs  in  the  state 
besides.  I'll  promise  you  that  ole  Santa  Claus'll  bring  you 
somethin'  mighty  fine  next  Christmas  to  pay  you  for  this 
here  job." 


THE  SHOOTING  UP  OF  HORSE  HEAD 

r  I  iHE  town  of  Horse  Head  had  turned  over  a  new  leaf. 
JL  There  was  to  be  no  more  "shooting  up"  of  the  village. 
Patience  ceased  to  be  a  virtue  when  the  "Cross  J"  outfit 
shipped  their  last  train  of  steers,  and  everybody  in  the 
gang  came  into  town  for  a  big  time,  which  culminated  in  a 
general  "shooting  up"  of  the  place. 

The  lights  in  all  the  saloons  were  bored  full  of  holes., 
the  solitary  street  lamp-post,  standing  in  front  of  the 
"Apache  House" — and  the  pride  of  the  heart  of  the  old 
woman  who  kept  the  place — was  riddled  over  and  over 
again,  and  every  woman  in  town  scared  into  a  fit  of 
hysterics.  Then  the  town  people  rose  up  in  their  wrath 
and  called  on  the  marshal  to  put  a  stop  to  it,  or  resign 
his  office. 

Now  Jenkins,  the  marshal,  who  held  the  position  by 
virtue  of  his  ability  to  shoot  quick  and  true,  was  something 
of  a  diplomat.  He  was  not  anxious  to  have  a  row  with  any 
of  the  boys,  if  it  could  be  avoided,  and  he  was  still  further 
anxious  not  to  lose  the  confidence  of  the  townspeople,  a 
nominating  convention  being  due  before  long.  Jenkins  was 
a  candidate  for  sheriff  on  the  Democratic  ticket,  and  in 

*By  permission  The  Argonaut,  San  Francisco,  Cal. 

206 


The  Shooting  up  of  Horse  Head          207 

Colorado  County,  a  nomination  on  that  ticket  was  equiv- 
alent to  an  election.  Accordingly,  being  of  a  diplomatic 
turn  of  mind,  as  aforesaid,  he  decided  that  a  little  scheming 
on  his  part  might  work  to  his  advantage.  To  this  end,  he 
rode  down  to  the  little  cottonwood  "bosque"  a  few  miles 
below  town,  where  the  Cross  J  outfit  was  camped,  busily 
engaged  in  shoeing  horses  for  another  trip  into  the  moun- 
tains, and  overhauling  the  wagon  generally. 

The  result  of  his  visit  was  that  he  was  authorized  by 
the  guilty  "punchers"  to  enter  into  negotiations  with  the 
town  justice,  and  make  some  sort  of  terms  with  him,  based 
upon  their  pleading  guilty  and  promising  good  behavior 
for  the  future.  All  this  Jenkins  successfully  accomplished, 
and  about  three  o'clock  the  next  afternoon  the  wily  marshal 
rode  into  town  accompanied  by  eight  or  ten  of  the  boys. 

Being  arraigned  before  the  town  barber,  who  upheld 
the  dignity  of  the  law  as  justice  of  the  peace,  they  gravely 
plead  guilty  to  disturbing  the  peace  and  dignity  of  the 
place,  were  fined  one  dollar  and  costs  each,  which  they 
promptly  paid,  with  many  promises  of  future  good  conduct. 

But  alas  for  such  promises!  "Cow  punchers  is  pore 
weak  critters,  shore,"  old  Dad,  the  cook,  used  to  say ;  and 
before  sunset  that  day  every  last  one  of  them,  unmindful 
of  promises  or  pledges,  was  again  full  of  enthusiasm  and 
cheap  whiskey. 

"Tex,"  the  bartender  at  the  "Bucket  of  Blood,"  had 
all  their  six-shooters  behind  the  bar,  and  for  safety  had 
slyly  removed  all  the  cartridges  and  inserted  empty  shells 
in  their  place. 

About  sunset  the  gang  started  for  camp,  their  weapons 


208        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

returned  to  them  with  many  warnings  from  Tex  not  to 
shoot  until  clear  out  of  town.  They  mounted  their  ponies 
and  struck  out  on  a  dead  run  down  the  main  street,  whoop- 
ing and  yelling  like  a  bunch  of  coyotes,  but  carefully 
refraining  from  firing  a  shot.  About  half  a  mile  below 
town,  however,  the  white  "Yard  Limit"  sign  of  the  railroad 
company  was  too  good  a  mark  for  the  crowd  to  pass  un- 
challenged. True,  the  heavy  piece  of  boiler  iron,  some 
thirty  inches  across,  was  pierced  in  a  hundred  places  from 
previous  attacks,  but  a  few  more  wouldn't  hurt  it,  and 
Baldy  Peters,  the  crack  shot  of  the  camp,  drew  his  re- 
volver and,  spurring  his  pony  into  a  dead  run,  took  quick 
aim  at  the  black  spot  in  the  center  and  pulled  the  trigger. 
No  answering  shot  came,  and,  although  he  tried  all  five  of 
the  chambers  (no  true  cowboy  or  frontiersman  ever  car- 
ries six  cartridges  in  his  revolver)  they  were  all  silent. 

Baldy  jerked  his  pony  up  on  its  haunches,  and  care- 
fully examined  the  cylinder.  Sure  enough  every  shell  was 
there,  but  empty.  Jack  Gibson,  who  had  followed  Baldy, 
had  the  same  luck,  and  when  the  rest  came  up  a  general 
investigation  followed.  It  did  not  take  them  long  to  see 
that  they  had  been  tricked  by  some  one.  Their  indignation 
knew  no  bounds.  "Jes  to  think,"  said  Big  Pete,  "s'posin' 
one  of  us  ud  a  got  inter  a  row,  and  some  blame  town  galoot 
had  a  drawed  a* gun  on  him,  wouldn't  he  'a'  been  in  a  fine 
ole  fix  to  'a'  jerked  his  'hog-leg,'  and  nary  a  bean  in  the 
wheel?" 

The  more  they  thought  about  it  the  madder  they  got. 
Revenge  they  must  have.  What  its  form,  they  scarcely 
knew,  nor  cared.  Without  more  talk,  they  all  reloaded 


The  Shooting  up  of  Horse  Head          209 

the  weapons  from  their  well-filled  belts  and  turned  their 
horses'  heads  toward  town,  speculating  as  they  rode  along 
as  to  just  what  they  would  do  to  show  the  town  of  Horse 
Head  the  danger  of  monkeying  with  a  cow  puncher's 
weapons.  As  they  rode,  they  hatched  up  a  plan,  suggested 
from  the  fertile  brain  of  Mac,  the  horse-wrangler,  which, 
they  thought,  if  successfully  carried  out,  would  give  them 
the  requisite  amount  of  satisfaction  for  their  wounded 
dignity. 

It  was  on  Tex,  the  bartender,  and  Jenkins,  the  town 
marshal,  that  they  poured  out  the  vials  of  their  wrath. 
Who  else  than  they  would  have  removed  the  cartridges 
from  all  those  cylinders  and  replaced  them  with  empty 
shells? 

Now,  they  knew  that  Tex  was  the  marshal's  right-hand 
man  when  it  came  to  any  trouble,  and  that,  during  the 
shipping  season,  when  the  outfits  were  around  town  a  good 
deal,  each  of  them  kept  a  horse  in  the  corral  back  of  the 
"Bucket  of  Blood,"  ready  for  any  emergency.  Arriving 
in  town,  they  proceeded  to  get  gloriously  full  again,  while 
Tex  and  Jenkins,  secure  in  the  knowledge  of  those  empty 
shells  they  had  placed  in  their  revolvers,  enjoyed  the  fun 
and  allowed  them  full  play. 

Along  toward  ten  o'clock  the  boys  drifted  down  to  the 
only  restaurant  in  Horse  Head  that  kept  open  all  night 
as  well  as  all  day.  It  was  kept  by  "Chinese  Louie,"  an 
almond-eyed  celestial  who  ran  a  store,  restaurant,  wash- 
house,  and  the  village  photograph  gallery,  all  under  one 
long  roof. 

Now,  when  a  puncher  gets  into  a  restaurant,  the  only 


210        Tales  from  the  X-Ear  Horse  Camp 

thing  he  craves  is  ham  and  eggs.  Of  beef  he  has  a  surfeit. 
The  menu  of  the  round-up  wagon  is  coffee,  bread,  and  meat 
three  times  a  day,  with  awful  regularity.  Therefore,  the 
gang  was  soon  busy,  seated  on  high  stools  at  the  long 
counter.  After  they  had  eaten  their  fill  each  wadded  up  his 
paper  napkin  and  fired  it  at  the  cook,  lit  a  cigar  from  the 
case  at  the  end  of  the  counter,  and  paid  his  bill. 

Then  the  fun  opened  by  some  one  pulling  a  revolver 
and  taking  a  shot  at  the  big  kerosene  lamp  that  hung  from 
the  ceiling.  In  an  instant  twenty  shots  were  fired;  every 
lamp  in  the  place  was  out  and  bored  full  of  holes;  the 
fancy  water  cooler  that  sat  in  the  corner  was  riddled ;  and 
the  coffee  and  tea  pots  on  the  big  range  behind  the  counter, 
as  well  as  a  lot  more  tempting  marks  in  the  way  of  copper 
cooking  utensils  that  hung  overhead  on  a  rack,  were  turned 
into  sieves. 

Poor  Chinese  Louie  and  his  assistant  lost  no  time  in 
making  themselves  scarce;  and,  after  it  got  too  dark,  for 
want  of  lamp-light,  to  see  to  shoot  anything  more,  the  now 
hilarious  punchers  swaggered  out  to  their  ponies,  standing 
quietly  at  the  "snorting  post"  in  front  of  the  restaurant, 
and  with  a  parting  volley  up  the  main  street  toward  the 
"Bucket  of  Blood,"  rode  furiously  out  of  town. 

Instead  of  going  straight  on  down  the  railroad  track 
they  turned  sharp  to  the  left,  at  the  first  corner,  and  headed 
for  the  county  bridge  which  spanned  the  river  at  Horse 
Head,  a  wooden  structure  with  huge  beams  overhead,  and 
some  six  or  seven  spans  long. 

Just  as  they  turned  the  corner  out  of  the  main  street 
a  couple  of  shots  whistled  past  the  bunch,  proving  that 


The  Shooting  up  of  Horse  Head          211 

Tex  and  the  marshal  were  alive  and  in  pursuit.  This  was 
what  the  boys  wanted,  and  they  gave  shrill  yells  of  defiance 
as  they  pounded  through  the  heavy  sand  that  covered  the 
road  to  the  bridge.  They  slowed  down  a  little  along  here 
to  give  their  pursuers  a  chance  to  catch  up  a  little;  and 
when  the  officers  announced  their  coming,  by  more  shots, 
some  of  which  came  rather  close  to  the  bunch  of  riders, 
they  fired  a  few  in  reply,  and  thundered  across  the  bridge 
at  full  speed,  in  spite  of  the  warning  sign  that  promised 
all  sorts  of  fines  and  imprisonment  for  any  one  "riding 
across  the  bridge  faster  than  a  walk." 

Along  about  the  center  span  four  of  the  boys,  Baldy 
Peters,  Jack  Gibson,  Dutch  Henry,  and  Long  Jim,  dropped 
from  their  saddles,  their  ropes  in  their  hands,  and  two  on 
each  side  of  the  roadway,  in  the  shelter  of  the  huge  beams, 
hastily  made  loops  in  their  ropes,  and  awaited  the  coming 
of  the  two  men.  The  rest  of  the  gang  clattered  across  the 
bridge  with  shrill  whoops,  and  out  on  to  the  hard  rocky 
road  beyond,  with  the  four  loose  horses  following  them, 
as  if  their  riders  were  still  on  their  backs. 

Now,  the  four  men  on  the  bridge  were  the  most  skillful 
rope-tossers  in  all  that  range.  Rope-tossers,  instead  of 
swinging  the  rope  around  their  heads  before  throwing, 
spread  it  out  behind  and  to  one  side  of  them,  and  with  a 
quick,  graceful  throw,  or  toss,  launch  it  with  unerring  aim 
over  the  head  of  the  animal  at  which  they  throw.  This 
method  is  used  almost  entirely  in  catching  horses  out  of 
the  "cavyyard,"  and  also  in  catching  calves  out  of  a  herd, 
as  it  is  done  so  quietly  and  easily  that  the  animal  is  snared 
before  it  has  a  chance  to  dodge  or  move. 


Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

Tex  and  the  marshal  were  not  quite  so  foolhardy  or 
ignorant  as  to  feel  that  they  could  capture  and  arrest  the 
crowd  they  were  after,  but  the  marshal  wanted  that  nomi- 
nation in  the  fall,  and  felt  it  was  a  good  chance  to  make  a 
"rep"  for  himself.  Tex  was  to  be  his  chief  deputy,  if 
elected,  so  he  was  also  eager  to  do  something  to  prove  his 
valor.  Their  idea,  therefore,  was  to  make  a  sort  of  grand- 
stand play,  follow  the  boys  out  a  ways,  fire  a  few  shots 
after  them  at  parting,  and  come  back  to  town.  Hearing 
them  rattle  across  the  bridge  and  out  over  the  rocky  road 
beyond,  they  feared  no  trap  or  ambush,  and  so  kept  riding 
in  their  wake,  firing  a  shot  every  few  seconds,  as  much  to 
show  the  townspeople  what  they  were  up  to,  as  anything 
else. 

As  they  passed  the  spot  where  the  four  boys  were  await- 
ing them,  four  silent  ropes  settled  down  over  the  heads  and 
shoulders  of  the  luckless  officers  of  the  law.  Going  at  full 
speed  as  they  were,  there  was  no  chance  to  throw  off  those 
snakelike  coils,  and  the  two  riders  were  jerked  backward 
over  their  horses'  hips  and  landed  heavily  upon  the  hard 
plank  flooring  of  the  bridge. 

The  marshal's  six-shooter  went  off  into  the  air  as  he 
wildly  threw  up  his  arms  to  clear  his  body  of  that  python- 
like  embrace,  while  the  one  Tex  held  in  his  hands  flew  off 
into  space  and  dropped  into  the  muddy  waters  below.  Both 
men  were  stunned  by  the  force  of  the  fall,  and  lay  as  if 
dead  on  the  bridge;  but  no  sooner  had  they  struck  than 
they  were  promptly  covered  by  the  four  men. 

The  avengers  first  took  their  small  "hogging  ropes" 
(a  short  piece  of  rope  about  six  feet  long,  which  every 


The  Shooting  up  of  Horse  Head          213 

well  regulated  puncher  carries,  either  in  his  saddle  pocket, 
or  around  his  waist,  to  be  used  in  tying  together  the  feet 
of  any  cow  or  steer  he  might  have  to  tie  down  on  the 
ranges),  and  secured  their  prisoners'  wrists  firmly  behind 
their  backs;  then  they  took  a  lariat  rope  and  wound  it 
round  and  round  the  men's  bodies  from  shoulders  to  heels, 
so  that  moving  their  feet  or  arms  was  an  impossibility. 
To  do  this  was  not  hard,  for  both  men  were  stunned  from 
their  fearful  fall,  and  lay  like  logs,  while  the  boys  worked 
on  them. 

The  end  of  another  lariat  was  passed  through  under 
their  arms,  around  the  body,  and  tied  in  a  "bow-line  hitch" 
behind  the  back.  The  two  luckless  officers  were  by  this 
time  regaining  consciousness,  and  began  to  curse  and 
struggle,  but  to  no  avail.  At  first  they  feared  they  were 
to  be  hung,  and  begged  for  their  lives  like  good  fellows ; 
but  as  they  were  swung  off  the  edge  of  the  bridge  and  found 
how  they  were  lashed  with  ropes,  they  pleaded  even  more 
fervently,  for  it  looked  as  if  the  boys  meant  to  drown  them 
like  rats  in  a  cage.  All  to  no  avail.  The  boys  never 
answered  a  word,  but  went  ahead  with  their  work,  in  the 
most  matter-of-fact  way  imaginable.  The  ropes,  tied  as 
they  were,  suspended  the  men  by  the  arms  in  such  a  way 
that  they  hung  fairly  upright,  and  without  any  particular 
pain  or  suffering  from  them. 

Now,  the  water  of  the  Puerco  is  about  as  vile-smelling 
and  oleaginous  stuff  as  any  one  ever  saw,  tasted,  or  smelled ; 
indeed,  the  offensiveness  of  the  water  suggested  the  name 
of  the  river — "Nasty."  Especially  in  time  of  floods  does 
it  deserve  its  name.  The  water  then  is  more  like  thin  gruel 


214        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

of  a  yellowish  red  color,  and  smells  to  Heaven.  Into  this 
mess  the  conspirators  slowly  lowered  the  two  officers  of 
the  law,  regardless  of  their  prayers,  entreaties,  threats,  or 
curses,  of  which  each  of  the  two  men  poured  out  a  liberal 
supply  in  tones  to  wake  the  dead. 

A  turn  of  the  rope  about  one  of  the  bridge  rods  served 
to  check  the  speed  of  their  descent,  and  while  Baldy  Peters 
got  over  the  railing  and  down  on  to  the  stone  abutment, 
that  he  might  the  better  see  how  far  to  lower  the  men,  the 
rest  held  onto  the  ropes  and  let  them  down. 

Baldy,  crouching  low  on  the  abutment,  peered  down 
into  the  darkness  and  gave  orders  for  the  work,  so  that 
when  the  two  ropes  were  tied  to  a  rod,  each  man  was  swing- 
ing in  the  water  breast  deep.  He  clambered  back  onto  the 
bridge,  and  the  four  punchers  hastened  out  into  the  dark- 
ness after  the  rest  of  the  gang,  who  were  waiting  for  them 
not  far  off. 

The  next  morning  about  daybreak,  four  horsemen 
rode  out  of  the  camp  and  headed  for  the  New  Mexico  line, 
across  which  they  felt  themselves  reasonably  safe ;  for  they 
well  knew  that  the  marshal  would  never  follow  and  bring 
them  back  to  relate  in  court  the  way  they  outwitted  him 
and  Tex.  All  they  feared  was  that  he  would  take  a  shot  at 
them  the  first  time  he  got  sight  of  them,  as  he  certainly 
would  have  done  had  he  ever  "met  up  with"  either  of  the 
guilty  four. 

The  boy  were  "drifters,"  anyhow,  as  much  at  home 
in  one  place  as  another,  and  good  hands  were  always  in 
demand  on  the  ranches  in  those  days,  so  ft  mattered  little 
where  they  brought  up. 


The  Shooting  up  of  Horse  Head          215 

As  for  the  marshal  and  Tex,  their  first  impression  was 
that  they  were  to  be  lynched ;  then  they  thought  that  they 
were  to  drown,  which  was  even  worse;  finally,  however, 
when  they  realized  what  the  boys  really  meant  to  do,  their 
rage  knew  no  bounds.  The  marshal  would  almost  have 
preferred  to  be  hung,  for  he  quickly  foresaw  that  when 
they  were  rescued,  the  ridicule  the  affair  would  cause 
throughout  the  county  would  everlastingly  kill  his  chances 
for  any  office.  Had  they  been  hung,  or  even  drowned, 
they  would  have  been  heroes,  even  though  dead  ones ;  but 
this  trick  would  turn  a  laugh  against  them  as  long  as  they 
lived. 

Luckily  for  the  two  unfortunates,  right  below  the  place 
from  which  they  were  lowered,  instead  of  the  river  running 
in  its  regular  channel,  there  was  a  great  eddy,  or  swirl, 
where  the  water  had  cut  a  deep  hole  in  the  sandy  river  bed. 
Here  the  water  was  quite  deep  and  had  but  little  move- 
ment, except  a  slow  circling  motion.  In  this  they  swung 
at  anchor,  from  midnight  until  broad  daylight.  The  water 
caused  the  ropes  to  shrink  and  draw  until  they  suffered  a 
great  deal  where  they  cut  into  their  wrists,  making  it  an 
utter  impossibility  for  them  to  untie  the  knots,  although 
they  worked  diligently  trying  to  get  them  loose  in  some 
way.  The  water  was  cold  and  their  limbs  soon  became  so 
numb  that  they  could  hardly  move  either  hands  or  legs. 
They  wore  their  voices  out  calling  for  help. 

The  boys,  in  lowering  them  down,  had  been  cunning 
enough  to  fasten  them  far  enough  apart  so  they  could  not 
aid  each  other  to  get  loose,  and  while  from  the  motion  of 
the  water  they  occasionally  bumped  against  one  another, 


216        Tales  from  the  X-Bar  Horse  Camp 

they  quickly  drifted  apart,  as  helpless  as  if  in  two  strait- 
jackets. 

About  sunrise,  a  Mormon  boy,  belonging  to  a  freighter 
outfit,  which  was  camped  over  in  town,  going  out  after  the 
horses  which  had  been  taken  across  the  river  the  night  be- 
fore to  graze,  came  whistling  down  the  road  to  the  bridge, 
and  started  to  cross.  As  soon  as  his  footfalls  were  heard 
on  the  flooring  of  the  structure,  the  almost  helpless  men 
below  roused  and  began  to  call  as  loudly  as  they  were  able 
with  their  numb  lips  and  jaws  chattering  like  castanets. 
It  took  him  a  minute  or  two  to  locate  the  voices. 

The  lad  took  one  hasty  look  over  the  railing  of  the 
bridge,  and,  with  a  shriek  of  horror,  fled  toward  town  as 
fast  as  his  feet  could  carry  him.  Here  he  told  the  first  man 
he  met  that  he  had  seen  two  bodies  hanging  to  the  bridge, 
and  a  crowd  was  soon  on  the  way  to  the  river,  expecting 
to  find  the  results  of  a  vigilance  committee  suspended  from 
the  stringers. 

The  two  men  were  quickly  pulled  up  on  to  the  bridge 
and  the  ropes  that  bound  them  like  steel  bands  were  cut 
from  their  bodies.  Both  men  were  so  stiff  that  they  had 
to  be  carried  to  town,  and  the  doctor  and  several  men 
worked  over  them  for  more  than  an  hour  trying  to  restore 
the  circulation  in  their  stiffened  limbs  and  almost  frozen 
bodies.  The  story  of  their  capture  set  the  whole  town  to 
laughing,  and  the  more  people  laughed,  the  more  ridiculous 
the  happening  grew.  Nor  did  it  lose  anything  in  the  tell- 
ing and  soon  the  entire  county  was  also  laughing  over  the 
misfortunes  of  the  two  peace  officers.  Jenkins'  chief  polit- 
ical opponent  naturally  made  the  most  of  it  and  under 


The  Shooting  up  of  Horse  Head          217 

such  conditions  that  gentleman  was  literally  laughed  into 
political  obscurity. 

About  that  time  the  Wells-Fargo  Express  Company 
feared  a  hold-up  on  the  railroad,  and  Jenkins  and  Tex, 
glad  to  leave  the  scene  of  their  water-cure  adventure, 
secured  positions  as  guards  and  soon  dropped  out  of  polite 
society  in  Horse  Head  as  represented  by  the  gang  around 
the  "Bucket  of  Blood"  and  its  immediate  vicinity. 

The  next  time  they  came  to  town  the  "Cross  J"  boys 
chipped  in  a  dollar  each  and  gave  it  to  old  "Dad,"  the 
cook,  counted  the  luckiest  "wheel"  player  in  the  bunch, 
who  took  the  coin  and  with  a  burst  of  good  luck  soon  ran 
it  up  to  something  over  a  hundred  dollars  at  the  roulette 
wheel.  This  entire  amount  he  gave  to  Jackson  the  wagon 
boss,  who  went  down  to  Chinese  Louie's  place,  and  poured 
it  out  on  the  counter  before  the  heathen's  astonished  eyes, 
as  a  peace  offering  from  the  "shoot  'em  up"  crowd  that 
had  wrecked  his  place. 

That  night  about  midnight  Louie  and  his  assistant  set 
out  to  the  boys  the  very  swellest  "feed"  his  culinary  abil- 
ities could  prepare,  and  the  affair  of  the  shooting  up  of 
Horse  Head  and  the  putting  of  the  marshal  and  his  aid-de- 
camp to  soak  under  the  bridge  in  the  cold  nasty  waters  of 
the  Rio  Puerco  was  thus  amicably  settled  over  the  viands 
that  the  Chinaman  furnished. 


AT  1 
T 


